Choices and Challenges
by CianLlyr
Summary: With the Shadow War over, John and Delenn can finally plan their wedding... but as usual on B5, the course of true love doesn't quite run smooth. Especially when Delenn's mother shows up to evaluate the prospective groom... Slight AU from Season 4.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Babylon 5 and its characters belong to J. Michael Strazcynski. Chenann is my own invention, though certain details of her life come from the B5 universe. The words are my own.

**Author's Notes:** I wrote the first half of this story long enough ago that it staggers me to recall. Fifteen years later (!), I've finally gotten around to finishing the thing. I started writing it partway through Season 4, back when the show originally aired, and reached some "what if" conclusions of my own about certain characters and plot elements that subsequently turned out very differently. Therefore, this story qualifies as partly AU. It takes place roughly between "Racing Mars" and "Rumors, Bargains and Lies". The explanation for why Garibaldi has apparently turned against everyone is different here than in the B5 canon, and the character Wade works for President Clark rather than for Edgars Industries. I've also taken some liberties with the Drakh Keepers, though they are fairly similar to the canon version.

_Choices and Challenges_ is a sequel of sorts to my earlier story _Trial by Fire_, which is available at . Certain events in _TBF_ are obliquely referenced here, and this story assumes that Delenn rescued David Sheridan from captivity on Mars, as occurs in _Trial by Fire_. Both stories, however, essentially stand alone.

Real-world quotations include _When You Are Old_, by William Butler Yeats; "With You" (_Pippin_, Stephen Schwartz and Roger O. Hirson); and assorted lines from "I'm Getting Married in the Morning" (_My Fair Lady_, Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Lowe), "Skylark" (Johnny Mercer and Hoagy Carmichael), and "As Time Goes By" (Herman Hupfeld, made famous in the movie _Casablanca_). I also quote the Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi.

**Choices and Challenges**

Chenann knelt on a cushion in the middle of her private study, her eyes focused on the single candle that burned in front of her. The flickering flame, the faint sweet scent of the melting wax, the softness of the velvet beneath her knees and the quiet sound of her own breathing should have conspired to distract her unruly conscious mind while her inmost self got down to the business at hand. She needed an answer to an important question—one that had vexed her ever since she'd received the message crystal from Babylon 5.

Normally, she found meditation effortless. After a lifetime in the Sisterhood of Valeria honing the mental disciplines that enabled her to use her powerful Gift, achieving the quiet of mind necessary to make choices was second nature. But after nearly an hour of kneeling before the candle, she still felt as unsettled as a novice preparing her first ritual meal. She needed to decide what to do, but the detachment necessary to make that decision eluded her.

She sighed and lifted her gaze from the candle flame to the study window. Outside, the winter sky was turning the luminous purple of evening. She watched the sky awhile, letting the beauty of it soothe her mind and relax her tense muscles. Then she blew out the candle and stood. Her knees felt stiff; she rocked back and forth to loosen them while she considered what to do.

She walked over to her desk and picked up the data crystal that lay at one corner of it. She stared at the crystal for several seconds, as if she expected to see the answer to her dilemma written across its shiny surface. Then, with a shake of her head, she walked across the room and placed the crystal in the player.

A sphere of light appeared. It stretched into a column, flared and resolved itself into the image of a slender woman. She wore a robe of rose-colored silk, edged in gold and grayed blue. Long, dark hair spilled past her shoulders, shining against the bright silk as if it had a life of its own. Not for the first time, Chenann wondered if it felt as soft as it looked. Against the gleaming dark brown of the woman's hair, her narrow crest of gray bone stood out in sharp relief.

The image bowed—a graceful motion from the waist, low enough to show profound respect but not so low as to indicate any sense of inferiority. The hand gesture that went with the bow conveyed respectful greetings and a slight shading of filial affection, just enough to satisfy propriety. Chenann felt a pang of wistfulness at the gesture, though it was no more than she might have expected. _I have seen her twice since babyhood. Should she come running to hold my hands? I should be happy she has sent me this. She did not have to._

With an effort, she silenced her thoughts and simply listened as the image spoke. She had heard the words so often, she could repeat them from memory. And yet she was no closer to deciding how to respond.

"In Valen's name I greet you, honored mother," Delenn said. Her voice was clear and calm, her bearing regal without arrogance, her face serene except for a sense of hesitation so slight that only another Minbari would be aware of it. "I hope you are well, and the Sisters also." She paused, and the hesitation deepened—not much, but enough to notice. "I have good news I wished to share with you. I am to be married fourteen days from now, to Captain John Sheridan." Even on the fifth viewing, there was no mistaking the light in Delenn's eyes as she spoke her beloved's name. Then a thread of irony crept into her voice. "Elder Callenn will have told you that I have the blessing of the clan of Mir in this. I would be grateful for yours as well." Another slight hesitation, most likely at the unconventional suggestion she was about to make. "If you wish to attend the ceremony, you will be most welcome." An almost-imperceptible straightening of the shoulders, as if a weight had been lifted from them. "Please convey my respects to Elder Callenn, and to the Eldest of the Sisterhood. Farewell." Delenn bowed again, a graceful repetition of her opening obeisance. Then her image disappeared.

Chenann gazed thoughtfully at the empty air where the image had been. It ought to be a simple matter, this unexpected invitation. She should send a graceful acknowledgment, wish Delenn every happiness, and leave it at that. The Sisters of Valeria did not customarily leave their chapter houses except when their talents were needed—or when there was a death in a Sister's birth-clan and she wished to pay final respects. For her to go all the way to Babylon 5, to actually attend Delenn's wedding to an outworlder—such a thing was unprecedented. Not wrong, exactly, but not according to tradition, either. That thought prompted a wry smile. _A daughter whose kinship I cannot formally claim, transformed into the living bridge of Valen's prophecies, plans to marry an outworlder of a race we named enemy and nearly destroyed for killing the leader we loved. And this particular outworlder has an infamous name still among many Minbari, despite his deeds on our behalf against the Shadows. Sheridan Starkiller. What can tradition possibly say to this?_

She thought about Sheridan Starkiller as she wandered back to the velvet cushion and sat down on it. She did not light the candle; she was done with attempting to find an answer in meditation. _The quiet mind brings detachment. Perhaps I cannot make this choice from that place._

Who was this Sheridan, really? She knew so little of him—a name bestowed in anger, a look in her daughter's eyes. And a formal account from Delenn of the Shadow War—from beginning to end, telling her part and his, sparing nothing—and yet somehow still leaving things unsaid. He had courage, this Sheridan—that much was certain. The killing of the _Drala'Fi_ might not have been honorable, but no coward would have taken on a Minbari warship in a flimsy vessel like Sheridan's under any circumstances. And when Delenn had asked for his help against the Shadows, he had defied his own government to give it—again, not the act of a coward, or of a man without honor. And yet...

She stood, walked to the window and rested her fingertips against the cold glass. A light snow was falling, the pale flakes barely visible in the dim purple light. Staring out at the fall of night, Chenann recognized and faced the real source of her agitation. _I do not wish to judge him by the actions of Dukhat's killers—nor yet by the Black Star. War is war, and sometimes it forces us to do things we despise later. But he is not Minbari. How can he truly know her? How can he understand her? How can someone so alien possibly make her happy?_

Delenn loved him, or at least believed she did. Her emotions shone like sunlight through the careful formality of her message. Chenann had sensed those same emotions in the accounts Delenn had sent of the Shadow War: love and trust, and not a little pride. She cared for this man, admired him, trusted him. And Delenn was no foolish adolescent to be led astray by curiosity or misplaced guilt or even the simple romance of the different, no matter what Callenn thought. Callenn was a tiresome carper anyway. How the same parents had produced him and her own beloved husband, Chenann would never know. If he opposed this match—which he most certainly still did in his heart—then that was a point in its favor.

But could this marriage truly be right? She folded her cold hands and tried to reason it out. Callenn had wanted to stop it because he feared genetic taint, of all the foolish things. The "taint" of Valen's children was spread throughout the Minbari Federation by now, and it had done the Minbari no harm. It wasn't differences of genetics that worried Chenann. It was the other differences, of culture and custom and thought. So far as she understood, humans saw the Universe one way and Minbari another, and while each might be right in its own way, they could not join together. Could they? Could the hearts of her daughter and the man who would be her son have found enough in common to let them live happily with their differences? Was such a thing possible between Minbari and humans?

_ I know so little of humans. How can I even ask this question? Perhaps I should go, if only to learn about humans first-hand. It may be that we are not so different after all—or at least, not in the things that matter. Perhaps Delenn and her Sheridan have discovered this._

It was a sobering thought—that the Minbari might have far more in common than most of them realized with the race so many judged as over-emotional and barely out of barbarism. Chenann could think of several people who would not thank Delenn for forcing them to face that truth. If she attended the wedding ceremony, she would be giving it the Sisterhood's stamp of approval. Should she—could she—do that? If the Sisterhood objected, what would happen?

_And if Delenn brings herself more trouble by this—not because Sheridan is the wrong man for her, but because blinkered nitwits like Callenn don't care for the truth she is telling them—the Sisterhood would be a powerful voice on her side. Do I not owe her this, as a servant of truth—and as the mother who bore her, even if the Sisterhood has since become my only kin?_

Once more, Chenann looked out at the sky. The snow was falling more thickly now; but in the single clear patch that remained, high up and to the west, a star was shining. Bright and clear, with a hint of blue. Tanas, the Star of Faith. The old tales called it Valen's Star, because its light first reached Minbar just days after his death.

She bowed her head in acknowledgment of the omen. She would have faith in her own instincts, which were telling her to go to Babylon 5 and judge for herself. She would meet John Sheridan face to face, and watch him and Delenn together. And then she would decide whether to bring Delenn to her senses or give her the blessing she had asked for. Either way, she would help her daughter—and tradition be damned.

**ooOoo**

"I will miss your cooking terribly," Delenn murmured to her prospective father-in-law as she took a dripping plate from him and carefully wiped it dry. The scents of red pepper and coconut milk hung in the air, mingling with the rich aroma of coffee. Real coffee, given to them by Ivanova as an early wedding present. Delenn was looking forward to tasting it. Apparently, real coffee tasted nothing like the strange stuff of the same name that came out of the station's numerous dispensers. John called it "swamp muck" and made a face whenever he drank it. The fact that he drank it anyway made no sense to Delenn, but she chalked it up as just another mystery of human behavior. But if real coffee tasted anything close to what it smelled like, she was in for a treat.

Chuckling softly, David Sheridan scrubbed the last plate. "You want my advice, order out a lot." He rinsed the plate and passed it to Delenn with an affectionate look. "I can give you a few pointers before I go."

She grinned at him. "My taste buds would appreciate that. Especially since fresh eggs are so difficult to come by!"

"I heard that," John said from behind them, as he set down three dirty glasses with a thunk. He shook his head at them and heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Mocked by my nearest and dearest. It's a hard universe."

Laughing, Delenn tossed a spare dishtowel at him. "And now you must help dry dishes. Another affront to your dignity. Poor John."

He slipped an arm around her waist and gave her a brief squeeze before picking up a knife and swiping his towel across the blade. "Oh, feel sorry for me. Less than two weeks away from marrying the most wonderful woman in known space." He glanced over Delenn's head at his father. "And with my Dad here to share it. Such a hardship."

David polished off the last of the glasses, then turned to lean his back against the edge of the small sink. "You won't mind my filming the ceremony, will you? Your mother and Lizzy will kill me if I don't bring them a vid."

"Not at all," John replied with a grin. Then he sobered. "I wish they could be here. But with all the straight routes blockaded, and the roundabout ones chancy at best, we just can't risk it. I'd never forgive myself if—"

David rested a hand on his son's shoulder. "They'll understand." Then, in the deadpan tone he reserved for joking around: "Just make sure you settle this business with Clark before the first grandchild comes along, would you? You can't ask your poor mother to miss that."

John picked up a glass. "We'll do our damnedest," he said, with a wry twist to his lips that showed he was only half-kidding.

"Will your parents come?" David asked Delenn.

She shook her head. "My father has been dead for some years—and my mother is a Sister of Valeria. They do not leave their chapter houses except when their gifts are needed. Save for those sent to found other houses, it has been nearly fifteen hundred years since a Sister went offworld." She picked up a spoon and dried it with meticulous care. "But I will have a friend or two. My cousin Rathenn, who will come with the Rangers, and Shaal Mayan—"

"The poet?" David pushed himself away from the sink and took the dry silverware from Delenn. "I've read her work. Picked up a collection of it at Powell's Used Books a couple of years ago. Powell's can get anything. Lord knows how good the translation is, but I liked it. Reminded me of Yeats, oddly enough—I don't know if you're familiar with his work—"

She nodded. "John lent me some of it." A touch of humor entered her voice. "In a great, fat tome full of poems, big enough to stop a door with. I am halfway through it."

"She's really only marrying me for my library," John deadpanned.

Delenn stared at him, wide-eyed. "How ever did you guess?"

"She's good," David said with a chuckle. "Keep this one, John."

He caught her hand and kissed it. "I intend to."

With a burbling snort, the coffee machine announced the completion of the brewing process. John poured three mugs full and placed them on a tray, along with a sugar bowl, spoons and a small pitcher of half-and-half. "Took me four trips through the Zocalo to find a grocer with fresh dairy goods," he said. "Snagged the last carton of half-and-half. Much better than the powdered excuse for it we're usually stuck with." He grinned at Delenn and his father. "Granted, half of it's going to Susan as a thank-you for the coffee… but we get the rest. Must be a good-luck omen."

"You'll like this," David told Delenn as they moved into the sitting room and John set the tray down on the low table. "There's nothing quite like a good cup of coffee—and whatever his other culinary shortcomings, John does make excellent coffee."

"Thanks, Dad—I think," John said as he handed a brimming mug to Delenn. She cupped it in both hands and inhaled deeply of its fragrant steam. It reminded her vaguely of _hofcha_, a dark brown mushroom with a smoky taste much prized by Minbari cooks. But the coffee smelled richer, and also a touch sweeter. A difficult scent to define in Minbari terms, though no less delicious for that.

She watched with interest as John poured half-and-half (_half of what?_) into his cup and stirred it. The coffee lightened to a rich browny-gold. David, she noticed, put nothing in his coffee. He held his cup close to his face, blowing across the coffee's surface to cool it. What was the correct procedure—cool the liquid first or mix it with something? What was the right proportion of cream to coffee—or was it merely a matter of personal taste? And what did one do with the sugar? Was it meant to be mixed in as well, or eaten in spoonfuls between sips?

"You'll probably want to taste it first," John said, before she'd decided which question to ask. "Just to see how you like it."

A matter of taste, then. Delenn smiled into her cup as she raised it to her lips_. I might have guessed as much. Humans are so informal compared to Minbari, they have hardly any rituals at all. Strange, how often I forget that. I suppose because I feel so easy with them. We have so much in common, it is hard to remember the differences._

She took a cautious sip, then another. She held the second sip in her mouth for awhile, letting it linger on her tongue while she waited for the somewhat thin taste to catch up with the richness of the aroma. After a third sip, she began to realize that it wasn't going to. Perhaps she should add something to it. It wasn't unpleasant—certainly not "swamp muck"—but it wasn't nearly as luscious as the scent of it had led her to believe. She put her mug down and reached for the pitcher, just as David picked up a spoon.

"I think I need a little sugar." He dipped up a scant spoonful and stirred it into his coffee. "Nice to see you still make it strong."

John took a long swallow, clearly savoring the taste. "I like my coffee with a little backbone." He glanced at Delenn. "So how do you like it?"

"It is… interesting," she hedged. "Not quite what I expected."

"It's all right if you don't like it," he said. "You won't hurt my feelings. Much. I might sulk for a day or two, or maybe a week. Ten days at the outside. Well, okay, maybe a couple of weeks if you _really_ hate it. But no more than that. Well, maybe a month—"

She burst out laughing. "All right, you terrible man. You have made your point. And now, perhaps, I will try a little half-and-half or sugar, and see if that helps."

It did; a dollop of half-and-half gave the coffee a richness that made it far more palatable to Delenn's taste buds. She promised to take David up on his offer to make her Turkish coffee, though she couldn't help wondering what she had let herself in for. It couldn't be too dreadful, she reasoned; so far, she'd enjoyed every dish David had made. If there was time before the wedding, and if she could find all the right ingredients, _and_ if she could bring herself to ask such labors of Lennier, perhaps she would invite him to a ritual dinner. He certainly merited the honor. In less than two weeks, he would become her father—and then he would be gone, and it would be too late. The way things had been going, they might well not see him again—though she would keep hoping otherwise.

David lingered long enough for a second cup of coffee, then bade them a cheerful goodnight. As John walked away from the closing door and back toward the center of the sitting room, he found his thoughts turning toward the wedding day—a scant twelve days from now, he realized with mild shock. Twelve days to deliver all the invitations to the Rangers and prospective guests on-station, to make the arrangements with Brother Theo and whomever Delenn chose as co-officiant for the ceremony, to put the finishing touches on the ceremony itself and to set up some kind of reception for afterwards. Which meant they'd need to see about food and drink and space… He sighed and scrabbled at his hair. So many complexities for such a simple thing—the formal declaration of love between him and the woman who held his heart. Sometimes it seemed as if it should be enough just to speak a few well-chosen words while gazing deep into her eyes…

_ Oh, well. At least I don't have to go hunting for a tux!_

A pair of strong, slender arms wrapped around him from behind, and a warm body pressed against his back. "Such a sigh," Delenn murmured against his neck. "Tell me what world weighs so heavily on your shoulders."

He turned to face her, full of love and contentment. "I was just thinking about everything we have to do. And how little time we have to do it in."

"Then we had best get started." But she made no move to leave the circle of his arms.

"Invitations," he murmured, nuzzling her hair. She smelled of moonflowers, an odd but delicious scent halfway between apples and lemons. She lifted her face, and his lips found hers in a long and tender kiss. And another, and another…

Reluctantly, he pulled away a little after the fourth kiss. If they went on like this, they'd end up in bed… which he wouldn't mind at all, except that then they'd only have eleven days in which to get everything done. On the whole, he'd prefer to spend their wedding night awake and enjoying himself rather than catching up on the sleep he was going to need if they didn't get started on at least one of their many tasks.

"We've got work to do, love," he said, with a nod toward the cards and envelopes piled on the side-table. Some things you still did the old-fashioned way.

With a wistful grumble, she snuggled close in a last hug, then released him. "You're right. I wish you weren't." She scooped up a handful of invitations and passed them to him, then curled cross-legged in the corner of the sofa next to the table that held the remainder. "Why does twelve days suddenly seem like such an eternity?"

"Eternity?" He skootched the second side-table around in front of the sofa, so he could sit next to her while they worked. "We've got barely over a week to finish everything—including a party after the ceremony, which I completely forgot about… why are you smiling like that?"

"Don't worry about the celebration afterwards," she purred. "The Rangers have it well in hand."

He put down the envelope he was about to address. "Delenn, what—"

She smiled at him, in the way that meant he wouldn't get a word out of her, and tapped the envelope. "Never mind. Write."

An hour later, John gazed tiredly but triumphantly at the stack of completed invitations before him. Delenn was just putting the finishing touches on another. He watched her draw the thin brush she'd been using down the thick, cream-colored paper and then around in a delicate flourish. She made even the simple act of writing graceful, a ballet for the hands.

She was frowning at the envelope now, tapping her lips with the blunt end of the brush. Absent-mindedly, she began to chew on it. At John's quiet chuckle, she looked up. "What?"

"I used to chew on pencils and pens like that. Pencils were the best, because I could squish the eraser into all kinds of weird shapes." He rolled his shoulders to work the kinks out of them. "Lizzy and I had a debate once over whether the metal bands around erasers or the plastic bits at the ends of pens tasted better. I think I was eleven years old to her eight."

Delenn laid the brush down. "You miss her."

"Yeah. More than I'd've thought, sometimes." He stood up and stretched, savoring the feel of his back muscles cracking. "Kind of unusual among siblings that close in age, at least among humans—but Lizzy was never jealous of me, the way some kids get. Maybe because I was a boy instead of another girl, or maybe she was just born nice. She shared a lot. Of course, it probably helped that she could fight me to a standstill despite being three years younger—and I knew it, so I didn't cross her." He turned to smile at Delenn. "Someday, when all this nonsense with Clark is over, I'd love for you to meet her. And Mom. They'll love you as much as I do."

"I would like that." Her answering smile turned wistful. "I wish you could have known my father. You would have liked each other. He was curious about everything, just as you are, and with a heart as big as all of Minbar. He would gladly have welcomed you as a son."

He sat back down next to her and took her hand. "You've come quite a ways from your family, haven't you?"

She tucked herself into the curve of his arm in lieu of reply. "Maybe your mother will come after all," he continued after a pause.

"I don't think so." She looked up at him with a wry smile. "She has no obligation to. We are not even kin, by formal reckoning." At his curious look, she settled more comfortably against him and continued. "When one joins the Sisters of Valeria, one renounces all other kinship ties. The Sisterhood becomes family and clan, as it has done since the days of its founding. It came into being centuries before Valen, when our people still warred with one another. Clan feuds had gone on over this or that almost since the dawn of our history, and we had finally begun to sicken of it. The Sisterhood of Valeria was our first baby step on the road to ending the madness of war. Those chosen to join it swore allegiance to no clan, but to all Minbari everywhere, and to their fellow Sisters. That way they could use their gifts for all of Minbar, not simply to give one clan advantage over another."

"So your mother had to… renounce being your mother?"

Delenn nodded. "But a mother remains a mother in certain ways, whatever tradition may say. She gave me life; no tradition can change that. And so I asked her presence and her blessing at our wedding in acknowledgment, to honor her as a daughter should. She will likely respond in much the same way; she will thank me and wish us well, but no more."

He hugged her gently. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" She reached up to touch his cheek. "We will pledge our hearts surrounded by friends. That is all I ask."

He kissed her forehead, then released her. "I should let you finish up that last one and get out of here. You look like you can barely keep your eyes open."

She stifled a yawn as she picked up the brush again. "It has been a very long day. And I think the coffee did not help. I have felt very sleepy since drinking it… what are you smiling at?"

"You," he said, chuckling. "Everybody else gets woken up by coffee. You go to sleep. You're just not like anybody else, are you?"

"No," she said, with an impish smile and a proud lift of her chin.

"Thank goodness." He brushed his fingers across her cheek, then stood. "How about a cup of tea before you go?"

"Please." Now her smile held a touch of shyness. "I find I am reluctant to let the evening end… even if I am too tired to do anything but talk awhile."

"Remind me not to feed you coffee next time, then." They shared a last, affectionate grin—then he went to the kitchenette to put the kettle on.

Chewing once more on the end of her brush, Delenn watched him go. As he busied himself with tea-making, she picked up the last envelope. She dipped her brush in fresh ink and carefully wrote the name of Michael Garibaldi.


	2. Chapter 2

_Not a bad day's work,_ Garibaldi thought as he ambled down the long corridor toward his new home in Brown Sector. _Pays the rent with some to spare, like Dad used to say._

He didn't actually have to pay rent, of course. Sheridan had offered to let it go, the day he'd finally gotten it through his head that Michael meant to resign. Garibaldi's lips twitched in a sour half-smile, his usual reaction to the thought of Sheridan these days. _Nice offer. His way of telling me he expected me to fail, and letting me know that All Would Be Forgiven the day I came begging for my old job back. So long as I promised to follow the Gospel according to Sheridan, that is. Too fragging late now._

He shook his head, suddenly irritated with himself. He shouldn't be so damned judgmental, even with Sheridan. He didn't remember being quite this quick on the trigger back in the old days, before all the drek with the Shadow War had started coming down. Poor Sheridan had probably meant well enough with the no-rent deal. That was a big part of his problem with the guy, truth be told. He always meant well. And because of that, he figured everything he did was okay, even when it wasn't. Including letting everybody treat him like God, the way they had since he'd come back from Z'ha'dum. He didn't see how wrong that was, even though Garibaldi'd done his best to tell him. But he hadn't listened, and so now it was up to Garibaldi to do something about it before Sheridan the Messiah lost them everything. _Damn arrogant son of a—_

He shook his head, as if to knock the angry musings out of his brain. He didn't want to think about Sheridan anymore. Those kinds of thoughts made him irritable, restless. And the problem would be taken care of soon enough. The men he'd pledged his help to would see to that. Better to think for now about the job he'd just finished and the fat finder's fee he was going to get—and the expense report he'd have to submit in the next couple of days, which meant he'd better spend this evening pulling together his receipts. Mr. Boze Clairmont, his client, had very deep pockets and he'd been so grateful to get his stolen soft sculptures back, he was likely to be feeling generous. Garibaldi snorted, remembering the little man falling all over himself to express what he considered adequate thanks. _Collectors. I'll never understand what's so fragging important about having a complete set of little stuffed animals, even if they are a few hundred years old…_

His restlessness was fading. He'd have himself a nice quiet evening—order Chinese take-out from Little Hunan, kick back with some vintage blues, maybe watch a few cartoons. And gather up the receipts, and send his rent money to the General Treasury account. No sense shorting the whole station of his two credits' worth, just because its commander happened to bug the crap out of him. He wouldn't be in command for too much longer, anyway.

As he reached his front door, he spotted something small and square leaning up against it. A cream-colored envelope, of all things—a relic from the long-ago days of snail-mail—with his name written across it. He opened it and pulled out the first of its several enclosures: a rectangular card embossed with elegant black script.

_You're kidding,_ was his first thought as he read the card. Then he started to laugh, a sound with no joy in it. _You are fragging kidding. A wedding invitation—for me, the bad guy who gave aid and comfort to the enemy. The Judas. The ex-friend who had the damned gall to want to lead his own life and have his own opinions instead of doing and thinking whatever Merlin the Ancient Alien said was best. And now Sheridan expects me to turn up at his wedding, in my best suit and a white carnation, leading the cheers from front row center? I don't believe this guy!_

The door swung open and Garibaldi stepped inside, holding the wedding invitation at arm's length as if it smelled bad. He tossed it on the nearest table without stopping in his headlong stalk toward the kitchenette. It had been a long day after an even longer week, and this… insult… had put the capper on it. The sheer hypocrisy of it made him sick. This definitely qualified as a special occasion. He was going to have himself a beer.

He rationed his beers, proud of his ability to do so. Once upon a time, he couldn't have managed it. He'd been an alcoholic's alcoholic, with no choice but getting blind drunk or going bone-dry. But ever since his unexplained absence from Babylon 5—which he still couldn't remember, and it gave him headaches to try—he'd been able to handle the occasional drink just fine. Only when he was really stressed out, of course, and only beer or wine. Not the hard stuff. He knew better than that. Really, it was hardly drinking at all. More like taking medicine… taking care of himself, which he hadn't always managed to do very well. But he could do it now, in this small way. He'd used to dream of being able to have just one beer and then stop. _Whoever did whatever to me in those missing couple of weeks did me a favor. Guess I'll have to find him and thank him someday—_

He was standing in the middle of his living room, open beer in hand. The bottle was cold, the aftertaste of the liquor fading on his tongue. He didn't remember drinking it. Or walking into the living room, or even taking the beer out of the fridge. Another blank spell. Were they getting worse? He couldn't tell. He only knew he hated them. One of them might descend on him at the wrong moment, and he could end up badly hurt or even dead. He should go see Stephen about them, have himself checked over…

That thought made him queasy. He'd been checked and probed and scanned and inspected for everything but fragging head lice more than enough since coming back. He refused to put himself through all that again. The blank spells would likely clear up on their own. He'd only been having them since his disappearance—and the farther away from that he got, the better things would be. He took a long pull at his beer, relaxing at the familiar taste and feel of it in his mouth. He'd be fine. A nice Chinese dinner and some blues music would set him to rights.

He placed his order to Little Hunan—princess beef, extra spicy—and then sat back and let the music wash over him. The singer's gravel voice blended perfectly with the mournful harmonies of the elaborate guitar licks. The rough, sad, rich sound carried everything away—his tensions, his fears, even his need for a drink. He set his half-consumed beer down with a sigh of relief. He'd finish it with dinner if he still felt like it.

As the last notes of the first cut died away, he opened his eyes and saw the discarded invitation scattered across the table where he'd thrown it. A piece of white paper lay on the floor nearby—a thin sheet, hastily folded, as if someone had tucked it into the envelope at the last minute. Curious, Garibaldi heaved himself to his feet and picked the paper up.

_My dear Michael,_ he read silently. _You may be surprised to receive this, and so I am enclosing this note to explain. I know things are difficult with you and John just now, but whatever is between you and he does not change what is between you and I. I very much hope you will come to the wedding; you are my friend, and it would do my heart much good to see you there. But if your own heart says otherwise, I will understand._

_ I do not demand this or anything else of you; know that above all. I wish only to share my happiness with all those dear to me… and you are one of them, whatever you choose to do._

_ Blessings on your path,_

_ Delenn_

Slowly, Garibaldi folded the note. Then he set it down next to the jumbled pieces of the invitation. He stared at them for several seconds, trying to banish the sick flutter in his throat.

_I wish only to share my happiness with all those dear to me._ With a sharp sigh, Garibaldi turned away and retrieved his beer. After everything that had happened, Delenn still cared about him. Still called him a friend. She didn't hold the ISN interview against him, even though it must have hurt her. That broadcast had made him sick to his stomach, the way they'd turned so much of it against her. He'd never meant to help them do that. But he had, with just one little phrase: "he listens to Delenn." Played right into the portrait of Sheridan as a helpless puppet with Delenn pulling the strings. But it wasn't like that at all. Sheridan was the problem, not her. He should've figured they'd jump on the whole anti-alien bandwagon and kept his mouth shut, even if it did mean giving Sheridan a free pass. He should've seen that one coming. But he hadn't, and he'd shot off his mouth, and he wouldn't have blamed Delenn for a second if she'd written him off just like Sheridan had. _But she didn't, God bless her. I'm still a good guy, still the same old Mike Garibaldi who introduced her to Duck Dodgers._

He chuckled at the memory of her reaction to popcorn. She'd picked up that first fat, white kernel and turned it over and over in her fingers, staring at it like it might bite her. No clue what it was, except that he'd been eating the popcorn with gusto. So she'd shrugged her shoulders and chowed down, gamely nibbling at one handful after another even though the look on her face said it tasted beyond weird to her. She was a trouper, he'd decided then. Eating bizarre alien food and trying to laugh at vintage Earth cartoons even when half the jokes went flying right over her pretty head, just to keep from hurting his feelings by not seeming to have a good time. In her own way, she had class. And a lot of heart.

His hand clenched around the beer bottle as he took another swallowed and began to pace. Old memories weren't going to help him decide what to do. Should he just grit his teeth and show up—put in a token appearance, wish Delenn well and hope she didn't see the pity written on his face? But then there'd be Susan to deal with, and Stephen and Marcus, and poor Lennier who wouldn't understand polite human social fakeries if they walked up and bit him—and God help him, Zack, who'd probably start begging him to come back on the job before he got done saying hello. He couldn't face it, knowing what he was going to have to do. Besides, he was done with that life. The thought of stepping back into it—even if it was only pretense, and for just a few hours at that—made him edgy enough to want to break something. Preferably something that made a loud, satisfying shattering noise.

He took another gulp of beer and wiped his lips. He couldn't go. He couldn't face her knowing what was coming. He didn't want to deal with it, anyway. And hadn't she said she'd understand if he decided not to show?

The door-chime rang; the delivery boy from Little Hunan with his dinner. He gave the kid a big tip, even though he no longer felt much like eating. But he'd paid for it, so there was no sense letting it go to waste. He'd sit and eat and enjoy the music just like he'd planned… and then he'd think about how to turn Delenn down.

**ooOoo**

Len Pierce, Psi Cop, wandered into the Operations Room on Luna Station at precisely 1200 hours Earth Standard Time—ten minutes before the transmission he expected was due. He liked to give himself that small margin of safety; not so much as to make him look impatient or overcautious, nor so little as to risk missing anything. He liked the precision of it—exactly ten minutes, no more, no less. Precision was vital to a man in his position. Certain operations, made unfortunately necessary by the misguided actions of so-called heroes like the renegade commander of Babylon 5, required absolute precision to execute. And Len Pierce was the perfect man for absolute precision.

He cherished a quiet hope, never voiced and rarely thought, that his gift for detailed planning might recommend him to Bester. He admired Bester, as much as he was capable of admiring anyone. Now there was a man who understood precision—the cold beauty of it, the elegance of the perfectly worked-out scheme. If Len could pull off Operation Iceberg for Bester, his role model might just promote him to the position of personal aide. As much as he allowed himself to want anything, Len Pierce wanted that. He wanted it very much.

He strolled over to the primary scanning station and spoke softly to the technician manning it. "Anything yet?"

"No, sir," she responded. She was staring into the empty air just shy of the comm screen in front of her, her eyes slightly unfocused. Len could hear the faint hum from her headset, and he knew the tech was focusing all her attention on sorting out the cacophony of transmissions from Babylon 5. Psi Corps monitored everything it could from the station—not every single transmission, but considerably closer to that than Babylon 5's treacherous inhabitants likely suspected. Len permitted himself a small smile. The transmission he was waiting for wouldn't come over Babylon 5's regular channels. The tech would recognize it immediately and transfer it from audio-only to an audiovisual signal. She was keeping the comm screen clear for just that purpose, precisely as he had ordered her to. Bester would surely appreciate his attention to such small details.

"Incoming," the technician said. She straightened in her chair, her fingers flying over the comm unit's keypad. Wade's face appeared on the screen. He looked serious, as always, but satisfaction glimmered in his eyes.

"We've got him," Wade said. "Like a fish in a net. Mr. Garibaldi belongs to us." One corner of his mouth lifted in his version of a broad grin. "Nice job you boys did on his head, I have to say. Made things real easy."

Len felt a swift glow of satisfaction. His work had paid off, allowing his and Bester's grand scheme to be put in motion. All that time spent in the bunker, hammering at Garibaldi until the man finally broke down, had been worth it. Garibaldi had resisted for so long that Len had privately doubted his conditioning would hold. But it appeared his fears were unfounded. "He agreed to turn Sheridan over to us?"

Wade nodded. "I just have to let him know the place and time of the snatch. Garibaldi'll be the bait, and we'll be the trap. Say a week from now, 1300 hours Bab Five time." Wade's expression turned into a sneer. "A couple days before his wedding to the Minbari bitch. His guard'll be down. That give you enough time to ship the beastie here?"

Len pondered a moment. They ought to send the shipment by a roundabout route, just as if it were being carried by a run-of-the-mill black marketeer. Make everything look nice and harmless. To go roundabout all the way from Luna would take just over two weeks. Could they wait that long? Len frowned. The President was becoming increasingly restive about Babylon 5's continued defiance, especially since the so-called Voice of the Resistance had started getting through the signal jammers. The sooner Sheridan was dealt with, the better Clark would like it. They could send the shipment by jump gate far enough to cut the travel time down to a few days, then order the pilot to make the rest of the journey the long way.

Len had chosen the pilot himself. As a known associate of at least one and possibly two of the black marketeers tentatively identified as providing Babylon 5 with contraband food and spare parts, he doubted she'd have much trouble getting aboard the station and presenting her bona fides. Actually getting the cargo past customs would fall to Wade's people—perhaps with a little assistance from the resourceful Mr. Garibaldi. And the cargo had its own ways of remaining hidden. But it always paid to be cautious. Several days' traceable journey along known smugglers' routes should help take care of any lingering, inconvenient suspicions.

Len nodded to the image on the comm screen. "Expect the _Valiant _five days from now. We want this accomplished as quickly as possible; prolonging things only invites something to go wrong."

"We'll be waiting," Wade replied, and broke the link.

Len turned to the tech. "Tell the medical team I'm on my way, and to have the cargo ready."

As he walked down the corridor toward the Corps' private medical facility, Len felt only one slight regret—that he had not accomplished Bester's primary goal of discovering where the Shadows had taken Garibaldi and what they had done to him. Still, he had managed everything else perfectly. Elegantly, even. And once the Corps had Garibaldi back in its hands, they could re-examine him at their leisure. Sooner or later, Garibaldi's mind would give up all its memories. In the meantime, there was another mission to accomplish.

The medlab doors whispered open as he reached them. He stepped inside, nodded to the physician on duty, and headed for the isolab.

The cargo was there, just as he'd ordered—floating in its nutrient bath inside a sturdy, clear cylinder about half the length of Len's forearm. He supposed he should stop thinking of it as "cargo." It might be displeased at being classed with inanimate objects and mindless organics. Len suppressed the shiver that the sight of it always gave him. Whatever this thing truly was, it wasn't mindless.

He took a calming breath, cleared the tinge of repugnance from his thoughts, and slowly lowered the shields around his mind. He felt the familiar touch of the alien creature's presence—burning cold, like a flame made of ice—and waited for it to acknowledge him.

The coldness turned toward him. In clear, sharp images, he conveyed to the creature what was going to happen in the next several days. He visualized the cylinder and its occupant being loaded into a ship's cargo bay, the ship leaving Luna Station and traveling through space, arriving at Babylon 5. He visualized Sheridan, unconscious and strapped to a table as the creature implanted itself in his neck.

The creature conveyed its satisfaction. Then its cold fire turned away.

Len raised his shields, wiping his hands against his trousers. Contact with the creature made him feel soiled, even through the black leather gloves he wore. For a fleeting moment, he almost pitied Sheridan. But there was a price for treason—and Sheridan was soon to pay his.


	3. Chapter 3

For what felt like the hundredth time in an hour, Shaal Mayan shifted in her seat. She could _not_ get comfortable, no matter how hard she tried. The cushion beneath her gave too much, and the resultant misalignment of posture was making the small of her back ache. The cushion that should have been behind her head hit her at precisely the wrong spot, forcing her to lean forward or submit to having her neck bent at an awkward angle. Her last trip by passenger liner hadn't been anywhere near this bad—but her destination then had been far less fraught with uncertainties.

And that was half the trouble, she realized as she gave up her efforts with a last rustle of silk. Her own inner tensions at returning to Babylon 5 were making themselves felt in her body, turning minor discomforts into major irritants. And the wedding poem was going badly, which didn't help. After so many years at the top of her craft, a first draft fit to be seen should be relatively simple to write. But the words refused to come.

She chewed on the end of her writing brush, hoping the familiar tang of the wood might help clarify her thoughts. Part of the problem, of course, was her utter ignorance about half of her subject. For Delenn she could at least write something true to the heart, despite the years and changes since they had last met. But Sheridan was an enigma, a blank. She knew of him only second-hand, from accounts of the Earth-Minbari war—and most of that she could discard, seen as it was through the prism of Minbari outrage more than a decade gone. Not exactly a fitting attitude for a poem celebrating love and union! Plus, it could hardly be accurate. Delenn couldn't possibly care so much for Sheridan if it was. To love the man without honor or conscience that Starkiller was alleged to be, to risk the wrath of her clan in doing so—impossible. The sister of her heart could never do such a thing.

Not for the first time, she cursed the ion storms that had kept her on Minbar's third moon for two weeks longer than she'd intended and made her miss the Gathering to which Delenn had so recently been summoned. She'd meant to be there, especially after she'd realized that Elder Callenn had called it. She'd been sure he meant Delenn no good. An impossible child, he'd said of her—almost constantly, as Mayan remembered it growing up. And that had been the kindest of his remarks about his overly inquisitive niece. Callenn preferred a world in which everyone knew his place and no one questioned anything. Questions demanded answers, and sooner or later one was bound to run out of them. Delenn knew how to find her own; but too many Minbari seemed to have lost that knack, Callenn among them.

Mayan had her suspicions about the Gathering's end result. The symbol-of-life custom was ancient and honorable, of course; not even the most scrupulous traditionalist of the warrior caste could fault it (though some had tried!). But it seemed odd to label Delenn's marriage an act of atonement for the war, when it was her own desire to marry John Sheridan that had prompted a clan Gathering in the first place. _As usual, there is something we are not being told,_ Mayan thought sourly. _Understanding may not be required… but for once it would be nice!_

With an effort, she turned her attention back to the poem. The first line wasn't too dreadful; she might make something of that. The next two were hopeless. In fact, the rest of the poem was hopeless. Mayan scowled down at the paper across her knees. She might as well tear it up and start over. _You'd never guess I'd won the Crystal Star for new compositions at five of the last eight Festivals. A novice crafting her first exercises could write better than this. How Bironn would laugh if he could see me now. _

She'd locked horns with Bironn of the warrior clan of Desai just two years ago, not long after word of Delenn's shocking transformation had reached Minbar. During that year's Festival, Bironn had openly mocked Delenn in a satirical ballad that compared her to the bastard offspring of a disgraced acolyte and a mudworm—a creature that lived in the mud flats of the Inland Sea and devoured the corpses of fish. Mudworms were noted for their mindlessness and their smell; few Minbari would willingly touch one, let alone couple with it, even if the latter were physically possible. Bironn had taxed his inventiveness to its limit attempting to describe just such an encounter in the most graphic terms. His fellow warriors had loved it. A few among them showed distaste, but whether for the song's subject or the crudity with which it was expressed, Mayan hadn't been certain. What had truly shocked her, however, was the response of the other two castes. Far more of their members than she'd expected had reacted, not with outrage, but with muffled snickers and mutual glances of half-guilty amusement. Mayan's first impulse had been to denounce Bironn in mid-performance; instead, she had swallowed her rage and turned it toward other channels. On the third and last day of the Festival, she'd mounted the stage before the assembled throng and proudly sung the result of a long night's furious labor—a devastating parody of Bironn's ballad, crafted with all the elegance and caustic wit at her command. The number of flowers thrown in response had been disappointingly small, but amid the scattered denunciations and shouts of approval she'd seen several thoughtful faces, and gone away satisfied.

She had not fully realized until later what had prompted her response. Family feeling was part of it, of course. The family Mir did not lightly renounce its own, a tradition she had absorbed growing up as a fostern of that clan. The few Miri who had cautiously suggested "re-evaluating" Delenn's right of kinship among them had been told to keep silent or join any other clan that would have them. None accepted the challenge.

And there was personal affection, too—a lifetime's worth, expressed through shared imaginings and fights over toys and confidences whispered in the dead hours of night. She could hardly remember a time when Delenn had not been there, to laugh and cry and quarrel and share with. One did not turn one's back on such things easily, and certainly not because of the ill opinions of others.

In the end, however, her own judgment proved the strongest reason for her very public defense. Affection aside, she knew Delenn as only a sister of her heart could know her—and she knew that the whisperings of _pride, presumption,_ and _never knew her proper place_ were simply wrong. Delenn had her faults, but pride was not one of them. She asked too many questions for some people's comfort, that was all. And followed her heart wherever it led, whether or not it was convenient.

Her transformation had shocked Mayan as much as anyone at first. It was an extraordinary thing to have done, even with the Grey Council's blessing; to have gone ahead without that blessing seemed inexplicable. And yet, to put it down to sheer arrogance—to claim, as some loose-tongued folk did, that the great Dukhat's attentions had turned the head of a foolish girl until nothing could satisfy her pride save delusions of Destiny—was ignorant and unjust. It insulted Dukhat as well as Delenn; if he had chosen wrongly in her, then what did that say of his judgment? The spreaders of such calumny never asked that question, of course. It probably hadn't occurred to them. They were simply grasping at straws with which to explain a profoundly disturbing choice made by a woman few of them knew and still fewer understood. And whatever they could not understand must be wrong.

So they had stripped Delenn of her office and honors, even the name of _satai_, and left her to herself on Babylon 5 amid the humans they so despised. A few warriors of Mayan's acquaintance—one of them Bironn's sister, with whom she had been friends until the dueling-satires incident—had asked her what she thought of it all, in the clear expectation that she would join them in relishing the scandal. They knew what had happened to her on Babylon 5, and believed her opinion of humans must therefore be as low as theirs. They had failed to consider that all humans weren't alike, any more than all Minbari were—and that she might have met a few less brutal and stupid than the ones who'd branded her. A few with kind hearts and honorable souls, no less.

_That seems to be the story of our dealings with humans,_ she thought ruefully as she brushed her fingers across the branding scar. _We fail to consider their complexity, even with evidence of it staring us in the face. It is easier to keep believing that humans are nothing but bloodthirsty barbarians who hurt without cause. That way, we don't have to wonder whether our war against them was wrong—and whether our dead and theirs died for no good reason._

She wondered how Chenann would respond if she voiced these thoughts. Chenann had never met a human, so far as Mayan knew. Did she think them barbarians, slaves to their passions? Was that the reason behind this extraordinary journey—to save Delenn from folly before it was too late? Or had Chenann decided to trust her daughter, and the trip to Babylon 5 was her way of publicly proclaiming her support? She looked over at the other woman, but saw nothing to answer her question. Just a small figure in a pale grey robe, very like Delenn except for her dark brown eyes and the fine network of lines on her face, reading a book with a serene and utterly unrevealing expression. Mayan was just uncomfortable enough to find it irritating. Not for the first time, she wondered if she should have warned Delenn. But try as she might, she simply hadn't known how to say the words.

She bit her lip in silent frustration, scratched at the brand with the end of her brush, and turned back to the half-blank page before her. She would have something fit to show Delenn by the time they arrived, no matter what the effort cost her.

**ooOoo**

The small rustlings from the seat next to hers finally ceased. Chenann gave the quiet a chance to settle, then glanced up from her book as unobtrusively as she could, to avoid giving offense. Mayan's fidgeting told her the younger woman was uneasy. Because of her, most likely. Mayan had been politeness itself throughout the trip, but hadn't talked much—and had given Chenann more than one worried glance when she thought the older woman wasn't looking. Chenann suppressed a wry smile. _As if I am a wild gok that might leap out of its basket and bite Delenn. I wonder how she'd react if I said as much?_ But even as she thought it, she knew she would keep silent. To make a joke of Mayan's private apprehensions would reveal that she had seen them and shame the woman. And she had no desire to do that.

Her attention wandered from her book, back to the last starship journey she had taken. A wedding trip to the colony world of Rizala, famed for its soft breezes and ocean waters warm enough to swim in. She and Ravenn had spent hours sporting in them, splashing and ducking each other like children playing in the hot springs back home, emerging only when their skins started to wrinkle—or when their hunger for each other demanded more than kisses and embraces in the waves. She smiled a little, remembering. There was no way to know for certain, of course, but she liked to believe Delenn had been conceived on that trip. Something about the way she'd smiled, even as an infant, marked her as a child of joy… even if it had fled too fast.

Chenann closed her eyes against the sudden prickle of tears. After all these years and all she had gained in them, the memory of what she had lost still had the power to wound. Delenn should not suffer such pain, she vowed to herself. _If this man Sheridan brings her joy, then she will keep him. I'll hear no one say otherwise. And if not, then let him be afraid._

**ooOoo**

Len Pierce strode into Luna Station's small secondary docking bay. The cylinder with its vital occupant rested securely in the crook of his right arm. The ship and its pilot were there, right on schedule. The pilot was pacing near her battered craft's descent ramp; he guessed she had arrived early. Assuming she carried off this mission well, he would have to speak to her about the virtue of patience. Anyone he considered worth working with more than once had to learn that lesson or they were no use to him.

"'Bout time," she said as she caught sight of him. She looked sulky; her short hair badly needed a wash. Clearly, she could also use a lecture about respect for superiors and proper hygiene. A slovenly appearance and a bad attitude would get her nowhere if she expected to keep working for the Corps—which would pay her as well and more regularly than the black market. He was willing to cut her a certain amount of slack, considering her background: petty theft and occasional prostitution, until she'd managed to steal a ship and set herself up in the smuggling business. That feat—and her survival for almost four years in a cutthroat field—showed potentially valuable initiative and guts. But such things had to be channeled correctly or they caused more trouble than they were worth.

"That it?" she asked, sounding less petulant now that she realized he wouldn't rise to it. "That what you want me to take to B-Five?"

Len nodded, then walked toward the ramp. She followed him up it and through the little ship to the door of its port cargo hold.

"Open it up, please," he said—affably enough, but with an undertone of command. One had to be polite but firm with these people. They liked to fancy themselves independent, and would refuse even the simplest request if their pride was nicked. Or if they thought they could get away with it. As with so many things, balance was the key.

The woman tapped a quick sequence on the lock's keypad. The door whooshed open, revealing a space the size of two large, walk-in closets. Boxes and crates full of high-priced goods from Earth and a few of the Mars domes filled almost every square inch; the ship would be traveling fully loaded to look legitimate.

Len stepped inside and reached for a smallish box made of thick plasteel. Its interior was heavily padded, just as he'd ordered. He started to place the cylinder inside it, then stopped as he felt a sudden, sharp prickle of unease. It was coming from the pilot.

She was staring at the cylinder—or rather, at what floated in it—the way most people looked at roaches. "I don't hafta feed it or nothin', do I?"

"The nutrient bath contains everything it needs. You won't even need to look at it. Just put its box in the marked crate and make sure that crate is easily accessible. Preferably a little off to the side of the rest of the shipment, but not enough to attract attention. Then forget about it. Someone else will pick it up once you've arrived."

She continued to stare in morbid fascination. She licked her lips nervously. "Thing gives me the creeps."

"Is there a problem?"

She blinked, then gave a harsh bark of laughter. "You're paying me good, ain'tcha? I got no problem with that."

He looked at her for a moment more, scanning the surface of her mind. He shouldn't do that, strictly speaking—but needs must when the Devil drives, as Bester might have said. Satisfied that she was telling the truth, he turned back to the box. "Good." He slipped the cylinder into its nest—a perfect fit—and closed the lid. "The rest of your pay will be waiting in your blind account when you get back. Don't get there too early or too late. On-time delivery; that's what we hired you for. Understood?"

"Aye aye, sir," she said, her voice dripping sarcasm.

Len winced inwardly. She was touchier than even he'd expected. To make up for his blunder, he smiled at her. "I have every confidence in you."

"Just as long's you pay me." She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her pants. "Money's the only thing I care about. Good, steady money."

His smile deepened a fraction, became genuine. "Do this job right and I can promise you more steady money than you ever dreamed of making."


	4. Chapter 4

Delenn flew into her quarters, feeling harassed and overwhelmed. She was running dreadfully late, and all because the Mrik ambassador had taken offense at the seating arrangements for the trade conference with the Pak'mara and the Duk'hai. The round table, which Delenn had chosen specially to avoid the question of who would sit at its head, had prompted a tirade about unfair preference given to the Duk'hai, starting all the way back at the First Light of the Universe. Delenn had forgotten that the circle was a Duk'hai sacred symbol—and the touchy Mrik envoy had interpreted the round table as a clear sign of deference to her people's long-time rivals. An embarrassing error on Delenn's part; but she'd had so much to do and to think of over these past few days, it was a wonder she hadn't completely lost her wits. And now here she was, rushing back to her quarters for the book of poems she'd promised Brother Theo so that he could look at them before the ceremony. His Adronado was fair, and she'd been honored at his request to read some of the ancient verses in their original tongue. Now she was regretting her eager agreement. She'd meant to bring the book with her to the morning conference, knowing she wouldn't have time to fetch it before meeting Brother Theo for lunch. But it had slipped her mind, along with far too many other things lately.

And now the silly book wasn't even where she'd left it. She distinctly remembered taking it off the overcrowded shelf and setting it on the sitting-room table, so she wouldn't forget it. But the table was as blank and empty as her mind too often seemed to be. Had Lennier come in and straightened up? But he couldn't have—he'd been in conference with her all morning, slipping exactly the right document under her nose when she needed it and keeping everyone well supplied with cups of hot tea. Bless Lennier—he'd kept her sane for most of the past few weeks, ever since she and John had set the wedding date. Where was that book? She looked around the sitting room, swearing in a mixture of Adronado and English. Amazing, how soothing bad words could be. Now she understood why John swore so often when things got difficult. "Fragging hell," she spat, and broke into giggles. How ridiculous she was being, staring around the room and growling like a gok with a sore foot instead of going to check the bookshelves. She marched into her bedroom and saw the object of her search—on the night table by her bed, not on the table in the sitting room at all. With a sigh of relief, she picked it up and headed back out.

As she passed her comm unit, she saw the message light blinking. "Summarize message record," she said, and waited for the ever-helpful computer to reply.

"Message from Michael Garibaldi," the too-perfect voice said.

Delenn felt a rush of gladness. He'd decided to come. She wasn't sure how John would take it, considering everything, but he had manners and kindness enough not to make things difficult for Garibaldi. And who knew—this might even mark the beginning of reconciliation between them.

"Play message," she ordered.

Garibaldi's face appeared on the comm screen. His smile looked forced and didn't reach his eyes. "Delenn, hi. Ummm… I just wanted to say, thanks for thinking of me. I appreciate it. Really. But, ummm, I don't think—I mean, I can't make it." He looked down, wet his lips, then looked back up and continued. "I wish I could, but it just wouldn't work. I'm sorry. Anyway, thanks for… thanks a lot." Abruptly, the image winked out.

Delenn blinked at the blank screen. She couldn't have heard right. Garibaldi wasn't coming, because… because why? She shook her head, clutching the book to her chest as if the solid feel of its corners and edges could make sense of the senseless. She had been so sure he would come, if only for friendship's sake. Surely his dispute with John didn't extend to her as well, just because they were marrying. Or did it? Did humans think that way? Did Garibaldi think that way?

Suddenly she was angry. He had no right to think such a thing. She was still her own person, marriage or no. And what was he doing, hiding behind a recording? If he had something to say to her, let him say it face to face. Skulking behind a garbled message that said absolutely nothing deprived her of any chance to answer. As a friend, he owed her that chance—and that much respect.

She turned and stalked out of her quarters. She would walk off her anger on the way to lunch—and then she'd track Garibaldi down. If he thought he could get out of this easily, he'd made a serious mistake.

**ooOoo**

"Warm up your coffee for you?" The waitress, a perky blonde just a shade too thin to look good in her uniform, hovered in front of Garibaldi's table. Her bright smile, tinged with anxiety, suggested that refilling Garibaldi's half-empty mug was the summit of her life's ambition.

Garibaldi shrugged and gave her half a smile back. Must be her first day on the job, she was trying so hard. "Sure. Thanks." He pushed the cup toward her and watched her beam as she filled it to the rim. As she walked away to the next table, Garibaldi reminded himself to leave her a nice tip.

He slurped carefully at his over-full cup, then turned his attention back to his accounts. He'd gotten through slightly more than half of his expense receipts; another half-hour or so should do it. He picked up another flimsy and entered the numbers on it into the datapad in front of him. Time-consuming busy work, but necessary—and just now, soothing. Concentrating on the numbers kept his mind from wandering to things best not thought about—like when Wade might show up and tell him they were ready to move. He was starting to hate the waiting, and it bothered him even more to be so dependent on other people for the go-ahead. But it had to be done. The last incident with Sheridan had proved that beyond doubt.

Though he knew it was sentimental, he couldn't help hoping the job wouldn't go down until after the wedding. Let poor Delenn get at least one good night out of it, before the world came crashing in on her. He bit his lip. _I wish I could make her understand what's going to happen. How much he's changed, and how bad that is. But she doesn't even see it. I guess love really is blind._

He sighed, reached for his coffee cup, and froze. A slender figure in a dark grey robe stood just a few feet from his table. His gut told him who it was even before she lowered her hood. From the look on her face, she'd gotten his message and refused to buy it. And that meant trouble. He racked his brains for something to say, but she spoke first.

"I never thought you were a coward, Garibaldi," Delenn said. "Could you not have told me face to face?"

The hurt beneath her anger made him wince. He had to get out of this, now—Delenn on a tear was the last thing he needed or wanted to cope with. He gave her his best cold-bastard poker face. "What do you want me to say?"

She glared at him. "I want you to tell me why you will not come to the wedding ceremony."

"How many hours you got?" he replied with a bitter laugh.

She pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down. Silently, Garibaldi cursed. "As many as it will take," she said, looking him in the eye. "I have nothing pressing for the rest of the day."

He stared at her while his brain sorted through strategies. Retreat looked promising. He closed his datapad and started gathering up his receipts. "Look, I'd really rather not have this conversation—"

She slapped her hand down on the pile of flimsies. "If you leave, I will follow. And I can be very hard to lose."

"Fine," Garibaldi snapped. He dropped the flimsies and flung himself backward in his chair. "You want to sit here all day, your choice." He snatched up a handful of receipts, flipped the datapad back open with controlled violence, and started punching numbers. He felt her watching him as the silence stretched between them.

"I said I would understand if you chose not to come," she said finally, her voice soft and troubled. "I was wrong. I don't understand. I wish to."

He crumpled the receipt he'd been holding, then tossed it aside. Suddenly he felt like a heel, and didn't much care for it. He considered walking away, even though it meant leaving his stuff behind. She'd keep it safe and make sure he got it back—and wouldn't take so much as a peek at his records. Not honorable behavior, snooping around in other people's things. But if he left now, she'd just track him down and buttonhole him sometime later. He knew how she got when she decided to have something out; like a terrier playing tug-of-war, she hung on until she won. He might as well get this over with now and hope his bullshitting skills were up to the challenge. And she deserved some kind of explanation, even if he couldn't tell her the truth. She'd always been straight with him; he owed her something for that.

"Things aren't like they were," he said, as gently as he could manage. "You want to patch things up, fix things, make everything all right again, but it's not going to happen." _Period. Now give up and go away._

"Why not? What has John done to make you so angry with him?"

He scowled at her, suddenly annoyed at her naivete. " What'm I supposed to tell you? You're in love with him; you're on his side. Don't even bother asking; you're not going to hear the answer anyway."

She drew breath to protest, but he overrode her. This was getting out of hand; time to stop it cold before he said something he'd really regret. "Look, I just can't do it. May you both be happy and live a hundred years, and all that—but I can't be there. I can't just show up in my best suit, have a slice of wedding cake and a champagne toast and pretend like everything's A-OK—"

"If you wish us well, then where is the pretense?"

He gritted his teeth. "You're just not getting this, are you?"

"I have not yet heard anything to 'get'!" she snapped back.

So much for semi-polite bullshit. Maybe gratuitous rudeness would do the trick. He hadn't wanted to get nasty, but she'd forced him to it. "Fuck this," he muttered as he flipped the datapad shut and scooped up the receipts. "I don't know what the hell you came here for, but—"

"I came to talk with my friend," she said with equal heat. Then, in a small voice that tore at him inside: "Or has your heart turned from me, too?"

He closed his eyes and swore quietly. Self-preservation told him to get out, and to hell with what she thought about it. But he couldn't do it. God help him, he couldn't just walk away and leave that question hanging in the air.

"Look," he said finally. "Let's just drop it, okay? I don't want to talk about it, you don't want to hear it. Just leave it be." _Last warning, Delenn. Please, for once in your life take a goddamned hint and leave well enough alone._

"He saved your life once," she said gently.

He snorted. "And I should be damned grateful? Is that it?"

She raised her chin, with a challenging gleam in her eyes. "You might consider what kind of man would have risked his life for a virtual stranger—especially when the outcome was so uncertain. You might never have woken from your coma, and he would have harmed himself for nothing." She leaned across the table and continued, her voice low and urgent. "He is not your enemy, Michael. And you should not be his."

He went cold at her last words. She'd hit far too close to home for comfort. He sought frantically for any half-assed explanation that might satisfy her and keep his secret. "All right. You want to know the truth? The truth is, I'm an ordinary guy. I want an ordinary life. One where things are normal even when they get crazy. Where the bad guys are human-scale. Not one where we're just a bunch of pawns for all-powerful ancient races, and mysterious Merlin knockoffs raise people from the dead, and… and friends disappear to go fight wars nine hundred years in the past. You live in that world now. All of you. But I don't want to. And I won't. I've had enough. It's over for me, Delenn. And I've always believed in making a clean break. So let me do it. Leave me alone."

She was staring at him as if he'd punched her in the stomach. He couldn't look at her. Blindly, he grabbed handfuls of flimsies and stuffed them in his pockets. Time to go—and if she chose to follow him, fine. She could follow him around the whole damned station and into the fragging men's room, for all the good it would do her. He wasn't talking anymore.

Several flimsies fluttered to the floor, scattered by the violence of his motions. He bent down to pick them up, but Delenn was quicker. She gathered them up and gave them to him, and for a moment kept hold of his hand. "I am your friend still," she said softly. "And I will be, always. Can you believe that? Can you try?"

He couldn't look away, no matter how much part of him wanted to. After a moment, he nodded.

She squeezed his hand, then let it go. He tucked the last of the receipts away and picked up his datapad. When he looked back at Delenn, she was holding something out to him—something small and round, wrapped in blue silk.

"A wedding-gift," she said quietly. "It is tradition at Minbari weddings for the bride and groom to give gifts to their friends. This is yours." She glanced at it, then back at him. "As a remembrance."

He took the bundle. It was surprisingly heavy, and for a wild moment he wondered if she was giving him gold coins. "What is it?"

"A meditation stone. A crystal native to Minbar." She smiled at him, though her eyes remained shadowed. "It quiets the mind and restores balance to the self. I thought you might have some use for it."

He brushed his fingers across the silk. "Maybe." Then he cleared his throat. "Look, uh… I have to go see a guy about a dog. I'll, uh, I'll see you around, okay?"

She nodded, rose and bowed to him Minbari-fashion, and left. His grip tightened around the stone as he watched her walk away. He couldn't back out now, not even for her—it was too important to too many people that Sheridan be stopped. But just for a minute, he wished he didn't have to be the one to deliver the blow.

**ooOoo**

Brown Sector's bazaar was as bustling and lively as ever, but Delenn hardly noticed the crowds and noise as she wandered through it on her way toward the nearest shuttle station. Her mind was on Garibaldi and their unsettling encounter in the café. She had truly hoped to change his mind, or at least get an honest answer from him about why he had turned away from them all. Instead, she had gotten evasion and anger and half-truths. She'd seen Garibaldi's temper before; she'd simply never expected him to turn it against her. It hurt more than she'd thought it would, considering everything. She knew something had happened to him during the weeks he'd gone missing, and had thought herself prepared to make allowances. But she had not expected so much anger, or the fear that drove it.

What could he be afraid of? He had told her once that the only thing he really feared was losing control; that he didn't know what he might do if that happened. From what she'd just seen, he was perilously close to that loss—and he didn't seem to know why, any more than she did. _I should have spoken to him before,_ she thought with a pang of guilt. _When Mr. Allen first brought him home, I should have gone to see him then. But I was too involved with the war, too much concerned with striking one last blow against the enemies I thought had taken John from me. I had no time to spare for anything else. And now it's too late. He isn't the Michael Garibaldi I know anymore. He's become a stranger._

She shook her head, impatient with her musings. Water under the bridge, as humans said. The question was, what did she intend to do now—assuming she could do anything at all?

Her own advice to John, that day in the garden after his meeting with Garibaldi had turned into an ugly shouting match, came back to her. _He must find his own way_, she'd said. What other choice did they have, but to let him do it… and to be there if he needed them, as friends always were?

The shuttle pulled in. She boarded it and sat down, keeping half an eye on the stops as they flashed past. She must stop dwelling on Garibaldi. It was only making her depressed and wasn't helping him. And she had more than enough else to occupy her as the days to the wedding dwindled. She had things to plan and requests to make and more gifts to buy, all in the nooks and crannies of time between the unending round of meetings and talks and minor diplomatic crises that refused to stop for anything. Even for one of the most significant days of her life.

As the shuttle neared Green Sector, she made a sudden decision. Instead of disembarking, she rode onward toward Blue Sector, to ask a certain someone a very important question.


	5. Chapter 5

"Me?" Susan Ivanova said, in a small voice she hardly recognized as her own. "Really?"

"Of course, really," Delenn answered with a warm laugh. "I would not ask if I did not wish it. And—" She hesitated, and Susan could have sworn she saw a blush rising. "I have no sisters, save one whom I have asked to take another part in the ceremony. You are the nearest to a sister in my heart—you and Lyta, but you especially." She glanced at Susan, her expression unexpectedly shy. "I have felt so for some time, but said nothing because I did not know how to explain. Or how you would feel. But I would be honored to have you stand in a sister's place with me."

For a moment, Susan thought she might cry. But that was ridiculous. Other people cried at sentimental times like this. Not tough-as-a-Russian-winter Commander Ivanova, career soldier and executive officer of Babylon 5. Not the woman whose wrath turned knees to jelly and whose sarcastic tongue was rumored to raise welts on a Starfury's hull. Probably something wrong with the air-filtration system, letting in too much dust or mold or whatnot. She cleared her throat, swallowed and willed herself to come up with a simple, coherent answer.

What came out was, "Just promise me you won't make me wear an ugly dress, okay?"

Delenn gave a startled laugh. "What?"

Answering laughter bubbled up in place of the threatened tears. "An old, honorable and thoroughly revolting Earth tradition. Bridesmaids—people who stand up with the bride, like you asked me to do—always wear dresses that could only have been designed by a colorblind dust addict on a dare. I'm not sure why. A test of friendship, maybe, or the bride's last chance to get even with her female relatives." She grinned at Delenn. "Sisters tend to be the first picks for the job with humans, too. For some people, the identical ugly dresses can be a subtle form of revenge."

"How very bizarre." Delenn shook her head. "Forgive me—I should not judge the customs of your people—but why would any bride want her chosen witnesses to look unattractive? It seems disrespectful."

"So no ugly dress?"

"No ugly dress. You have my word."

"Then I'd be honored to stand witness for you." The crazy impulse to cry was back, though less strongly now. At Delenn's delighted smile, Susan lost all restraint. Without stopping to think how the other woman might take such a gesture, she threw her arms around Delenn and hugged her. After a moment, she felt Delenn return the hug with equal force.

"This," Ivanova said as they broke apart, "calls for a toast." Wiping one overflowing eye, she turned to the small cabinet where she kept the good vodka. She brought out two glasses, then stopped. "Ah, hell. Minbari and alcohol—I forgot. Damn."

"Is alcohol necessary?"

"Nah. Just something in a glass." Susan thought for a moment, then smiled. "I have an idea."

_Surely,_ she remembered thinking later, _Papa's favorite vodka glasses never held this before_. They toasted each other in chocolate milk, giggling like a couple of kids. The delightful oddity of it stayed with her for the rest of the day. Fifteen years on from the Earth-Minbari war, here she was sharing a ceremonial drink with the Minbari ambassador who was going to marry her own commanding officer in less than ten days. And she was going to play bridesmaid, or the equivalent thereof. Absolutely crazy. Absurd. Perfect.

She twiddled her vodka glass and watched as it sent dots of light dancing around the walls. "So what does a witness wear, if not an ugly dress?"

Delenn looked thoughtful. "Whatever she and the bride choose together. It should be flattering—for a witness to look less than her best shames her and the bride. But beyond that, we have no fixed custom in this." She chuckled as she poured more chocolate milk into her tiny glass. "This is probably the only Minbari tradition of which that can be said."

"I could wear my dress uniform, I suppose…" Susan trailed off, frowning. "Not elegant enough. This needs to be something special." She gave Delenn a sideways glance. "I don't suppose you'd like to go dress-shopping?"

Delenn raised her glass. "As a man I know once said to me, I thought you'd never ask!"

**ooOoo**

They set the dress-shopping expedition for sometime in the next few days, whenever the two of them and Lyta had a few free hours. Delenn thought Lennier might like to come also, even though he had already chosen the formal robe he would wear. She had thoroughly approved of it, and also felt secretly relieved; she'd had trouble imagining Lennier in the strange suit of clothing deemed appropriate for human males at weddings. He simply did not belong in a ruffled shirt and a long-tailed coat, let alone the absurd little neck-cloth called the "bow tie." Thankfully, he had no desire to stand witness in a tuxedo—which meant she wouldn't need to come up with a graceful way of dissuading him.

Now, as the day turned toward evening, Delenn stood in the waiting room near Docking Bay Six and tried not to fidget. The room was crowded; Babylon 5 seemed to be an increasingly popular destination for travelers from Minbar and its colonies. She briefly wondered why, but just now, it was more important to keep a sharp lookout for a certain long-awaited passenger. She hadn't seen Mayan in more than two years—years full of changes so vast and events so swift that Delenn hadn't quite finished catching up with them. It would be good to see the sister of her heart again, to talk about everything over cups of tea late at night the way they had when they were younger. To talk of the Shadow War and its end, of the wedding to come, of John. Especially of John. She glanced at him and basked in the familiar glow of love and pride. Tall and broad-shouldered and handsome, with a heart as warm as a hundred suns and as strong as the bones of a planet… and he was hers, at least for awhile. The great gift she'd never expected. She could hardly wait for Mayan to meet him.

Passengers were spilling through the walkway doors now, stumbling with weariness or smiling with relief as they spied loved ones waiting for them. Delenn rose on tiptoe, craning her neck to see above the crowd.

"I'd lift you up, but it would be so undignified," John said from beside her.

She glanced away from the stream of people and grinned at him. "We cannot have that. The Universe forbid I should look undignified in front of Mayan, of all people."

"She's not much for dignity, huh?"

"Not with me." Delenn took his hand and gave it a possessive squeeze. She resumed her observation, her smile giving way to a slight frown as another surge of people blocked a clear view of the walkway entrance. "Why do people insist on milling around like herdbeasts?"

"Maybe I can spot her. What does she look like?"

"About my height, with light brown eyes and…" Delenn faltered. "And a scar on her forehead. A burn mark." She pressed her lips together and stared at the passing people. "There was an incident when she came here last, before Sinclair went to Minbar. She was attacked. But that was some time ago now, and—"

"There," he said, gesturing to the right of the entryway. "The little one in blue. Is that her?"

Delenn's face brightened. "Yes. Mayan!" She waved furiously. As Mayan looked up, searching the crowd for the source of the voice, Delenn grabbed John's hand and headed toward her friend. Then she caught sight of the woman who followed in Mayan's wake. A slender figure in silver-grey, with delicate features and dark eyes that Delenn still saw sometimes in dreams. _In Valen's name… I don't believe it…_

She halted abruptly, barely registering the slight impact as John bumped into her from behind. She was so rattled, she reverted automatically to Adronado. "Mother?"

"Blessings on your path," Chenann of Valeria murmured, with the deep bow of respect between equals. The gesture only added to Delenn's confusion. Her mother was _tzetai_, Gifted one, and so of higher status than she even without her greater age and wisdom… to say nothing of their blood tie, which her presence implicitly acknowledged. To be greeted as an equal was the last thing Delenn expected. In truth, she hardly knew what to expect. _This cannot be happening,_ part of her mind kept insisting. _Sisters of Valeria do not leave their houses. She cannot be here._

"Your greeting honors me," she replied, almost without conscious volition. The elaborate manners of the temple, etched into her psyche through years of repetition, were coming to her rescue. Without them, she would simply have stood and stared like a baby gok mesmerized by a hunting cat.

She saw Mayan's worried half-smile, sensed John standing beside her. She knew she should tell him who this was and what to say. He was just beginning to learn the many rituals of greeting; he knew little of the thousands of nuances that could be conveyed in posture and gesture, inflection and tone. He could easily offend deeply without meaning to, if Tzetai Chenann chose to take it that way. She had to speak.

"My mother," she managed to say faintly. In English. "Tzetai Chenann, of the Sisters of Valeria."

She read his intention in his face even before he slipped his arm from hers and cupped his hands in front of him. He was going to greet Tzetai Chenann in Adronado. As a sign of respect, of course—humans, with their plethora of languages, set great store by greeting strangers in their native tongue. Quietly, Delenn began to panic. John had only just grasped the mechanics of Adronado; its multitude of inflections was still largely beyond him. They had no parallel in any of the Earth languages he spoke; he almost couldn't hear the subtle but crucial differences between one word and another. It took all the self-control she had to keep silent and look unconcerned as he bowed to Chenann—perfectly, she noted with a twinge of relief. She didn't dare interrupt now, no matter how badly she wanted to. Such an obvious lack of faith in him would shame them both every bit as badly as a botched greeting. So she kept her face neutral with an effort and waited for the catastrophe.

"Blessings on your path, and welcome to Babylon 5," he said, every syllable flawless. "Your presence does us honor."

Surprise flashed across Chenann's face, quickly masked by polite reserve. Then Chenann returned the bow, with a bending of the head that indicated cautious approval. "The honor is mine," she said, and Delenn felt the knots in her stomach begin to loosen.

A small, awkward silence fell as they all looked at each other. _Quarters,_ Delenn thought, with a thrill of renewed unease. _We have nothing prepared. Where are we going to put her?_

She touched John's arm. "We must find quarters for her. I can give her mine, if there is somewhere I may move to…"

He covered her hand with his. "We'll find room. Don't worry." He frowned, considering. "Though relocating you close by may be a problem—"

"She may have my guest quarters," Mayan broke in, giving them both a reassuring smile. "If that is acceptable?"

At Delenn's nod, she turned to Chenann and bowed. "Allow me to give you my quarters, Tzetai. I will stay with Delenn. I think she will not mind."

After a moment, Chenann bowed her head in acceptance of the offer. Delenn felt giddy with relief and had to struggle not to show it. "My sister is gracious," she murmured, holding tight to polite composure. She bowed again to Chenann and gestured toward the exit. "If you will come this way, Tzetai?"

**ooOoo**

Garibaldi woke up with a headache, the fuzzy kind he usually got when his sleep came in snatches. He rolled over with a grunt and sat up, rubbing the bridge of his nose in the vague hope of making the nagging pain go away. "Shouldn't've had that fragging beer," he muttered, but knew that wasn't the reason even as he formed the words. He'd drunk the beer the night before last; the alcohol was long gone from his system. He couldn't blame it, or bad food, or any of the usual suspects for his night of uneasy catnapping. And dreams, which he could recall only in fragments. Delenn had appeared in some of them, her face cold and closed as she asked harsh questions of him that he couldn't understand. There had been others, too, though he couldn't remember the details.

The effort to remember was only making his headache worse. With a muttered curse, he climbed out of bed and staggered toward the kitchenette. He needed a cup of coffee like nothing else, even if it was the usual warmed-over dishwater. Caffeine was caffeine was caffeine—at the moment, he wasn't inclined to be picky.

He filled the kettle and set it to heat, then rousted a chipped ceramic mug out of the nearest cabinet and dropped a packet of freeze-dried sort-of-coffee into it. _Salvation,_ he thought, staring down at it.

He couldn't stand still. While he waited for the water to boil, he wandered into his sitting room in search of something to occupy his overtired mind. A cartoon, maybe. Something he hadn't watched in awhile. Like Robin Hood Daffy, with the duck swinging through the trees and slamming into all the trunks.

He walked over to the vidplayer and rummaged through his cartoon collection. He found Robin Hood Daffy on the third try and popped the data crystal in just as the kettle began to hiss. The opening title flashed up on the screen; Garibaldi told the machine to pause and ambled back to the kitchen.

Full mug in one hand and a spoon in the other, he returned to the sitting room. As he stirred the coffee packet around in the hot water, his gaze fell on the wedding invitation. It was still on the table. He'd meant to toss it down the recycler, but had forgotten.

He poked at the coffee packet and watched swirls of dark brown billow through the water. The thought of drinking this stuff suddenly repelled him. _Man, getting out of bed was a bad idea. Right now, _life_ seems like a bad idea. Why the hell can't everybody just leave me alone?_

That was why he'd slept so badly, of course—the encounter with Delenn in the diner, which refused to leave his mind. He forced himself to sip coffee, hoping the horrible taste would distract him. A useless effort. Sheridan had to be stopped, no question—but he couldn't help feeling guilty about the fallout.

He didn't feel much like watching cartoons anymore, either. He told the vid unit to shut itself off, then wandered back into his bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, sipping at his pseudo-coffee while he tried to think of something he felt like eating. He couldn't afford to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over his ears, no matter how tempting a prospect that was. He had clients to meet and bills to pay. Which meant he had to get himself into something like decent shape within the next couple hours.

Delenn's gift was sitting on his nightstand where he'd dropped it the night before. _Quiets the mind and restores balance to the self,_ she'd said. Garibaldi shrugged, put down his coffee cup and reached for the little blue bundle. _What the hell… it can't hurt._

The stone inside the silk was an opaque white oval, about half the size of his hand, with a Minbari character etched into it. He squinted at it, and after a moment's labored thought recognized it as the symbol for silence. He picked the stone up. It felt silky-smooth and cool, and fitted as comfortably into his palm as if it had grown there. Feeling slightly foolish, he closed his fingers around it and shut his eyes. _Now I'm supposed to breathe in and out nice and slow, and probably start chanting "Aum" or something. That's how this kind of mumbo-jumbo usually works…_

It _was _working, oddly enough. Just holding the stone made him feel less antsy, and the fuzzy headache was starting to ebb. He slowed his breathing and tried not to think of anything except the stone in his hand.

A soft shower of musical notes, like a harp arpeggio, danced through his mind. The echoes receded, each one bearing with it the tensions of the past couple of days. His body felt pleasantly light, and his breath came easier and deeper. He relaxed into the feeling like a swimmer into water, letting it carry him away from the troubled night and angry morning.

Gradually, he became aware of a voice speaking in his mind's ear—a male voice, familiar from somewhere he couldn't place. "Calm down, Mr. Garibaldi," it said. "Don't hurt yourself. Don't hurt yourself, Mr. Garibaldi—"

He saw concrete walls in front of him… behind him… all around him, everywhere he looked. Someone was shouting in a voice raw with rage. His own voice. He was shouting and smashing at the concrete with something heavy, hurting his hands with every blow. But he couldn't seem to stop, and all the while the other voice kept telling him to calm down, Mr. Garibaldi, don't hurt yourself—

He opened his eyes with a gasp. He was sitting on his bed, in his room, holding tight to the white stone. He loosened his grip and stared at it while he tried to make sense of what had just happened. Hallucination? He frowned. That didn't feel right. A flash from one of last night's dreams? No, that didn't feel right either. It felt like a memory—which made no sense. He'd never seen that concrete bunker before. He'd stake his life on it.

He brushed his thumb across the top of the stone, tracing the delicate curve of the sigil etched into it. The action soothed him, which didn't make sense either. What the hell was this thing Delenn had saddled him with?

It _had_ made him feel better, in spite of the bizarre vision, or memory, or whatever his experience had been. He felt calmer, more relaxed, almost ready to face the day. Another cup of coffee ought to do the trick. And no more freeze-dried muck, either. He'd have some real coffee, in his favorite diner just a couple of corridors away. He'd be well paid later today; he could afford the indulgence.

He got up, washed his face and dressed. On his way out of the bedroom, he looked back at his nightstand. The stone lay innocently atop its silk wrapping. It was glowing slightly… or was that his imagination working overtime?

He walked to the nightstand and stared down at the stone. On impulse, he scooped it up and shoved it in his pocket.


	6. Chapter 6

_Such pale cheeks,_ Delenn thought as she stood in front of her bedroom mirror and regarded her own image. _I look as if I have not slept. I will have to do something about that._ She had not, in fact, slept well; between a too-long, wee-hours conversation with Mayan and the nagging worries she didn't want to deal with, she had passed a less than peaceful night. But Tzetai Chenann should not know of it—not until Delenn had a clearer idea of why she had come.

She reproached herself for that thought even as she acknowledged it. _I asked her to come and now that she has, all I can do is fret over why. I should be happy. It is a great honor that she has left Minbar and come all this way to see me married._

_ But has she,_ came the treacherous, sneaking, fearful question. Delenn rubbed the back of her neck, a nervous gesture she'd developed since her transformation. For some reason, it gave her a measure of comfort to feel the weight of her hair against the back of her hand. Though not enough, unfortunately, to keep this particular worry at bay. _Might she have come to dissuade me instead?_

She let her hand drop to her side as she considered the question. Callenn's duplicity at the clan Gathering, where he had invoked the family's right to bar her from marrying John on grounds he knew to be spurious, had made her wary—perhaps more than was warranted. On the other hand, the Elder of Mir still opposed what she was doing. She had bought his acceptance of it only by agreeing to keep concealed a truth that frightened him more than the mingling of Minbari and human bloodlines. If he could find a way to honor the letter of his promise to her while evading its spirit, he was likely to take it. _And what better way than to persuade a Sister of Valeria—who is also my mother—to try to change my mind?_

Well, if that was Callenn's plan, it wouldn't work. Nothing could pry her from John's side now—certainly not the words of someone who barely knew him and couldn't possibly understand him. _Or me, either. This is only the third time we have seen each other since I was very small. How can she possibly know or judge what is best for me?_

But the answer to that question posed a problem of its own. Chenann couldn't know, couldn't understand. Which was likely to create a great deal of stress and unpleasantness where Delenn wanted only happiness and peace. Deep down, she cherished the hope that her mother and her lifemate would like each other… even come to love each other, as she was coming to love David. _But this can only happen if she sees John as he is. And how likely is that? She has never been offworld, never laid eyes on a human until yesterday evening! How then should she see and judge him truly?_

She sighed and looked over her shoulder toward her bed. Mayan was curled up in it, sleeping peacefully under a soft blanket. _Wake up_, Delenn thought. _Wake up and talk to me and tell me I am being foolish._ But she stood still and silent and simply watched Mayan sleep. One small hand lay half-curled beneath Mayan's cheek, just as it had when they were children. Delenn felt a rush of familiar affection. How many mornings had she spent like this—up with the sun, looking back at Mayan and watching her sleep before going in search of breakfast? Hundreds upon hundreds, from early childhood through their midling years, until she left home to study with Draal and then with Dukhat, who had given her so much in so little time.

The thought of Dukhat sent her hand back to her hair. She wondered what he would think of her change, whether he would have approved. She thought so. Even after all these years, his absence was a small ache in her heart. Would she ever see him again, or had he gone forever beyond her? A soul like his must surely have gone on to another plane of existence… yet she couldn't help hoping he would come back at a time and place where she would see him, and know.

She shook herself, impatient with her thoughts. This was no time to go rummaging through memories. She had a breakfast to attend—and if she did not wish to offend the Tzetai, it would not do to be late.

She went to the kitchen and picked up the bag of provisions she had carefully packed the night before. Several bunches of _nek'har_, fresh and perfectly ripe—a taste of home, which served as both a graceful gesture to Chenann's tastes and a reminder that Delenn was still Minbari. Her own favorite breakfast tea, a bracing blend of spicy _tikka_ leaves and tangy red _nich'on_ berries—the tikka with its many flavors symbolizing the richness of diversity, the nich'on's distinctive taste representing the value of uniqueness. And two sesame bagels, in flavor very similar to the flatbread of Delenn's native city, yet in texture utterly different. With cream cheese, of course. Two tastes of Earth, to symbolize the worth of humans and their ways. Tzetai Chenann would understand it all, Delenn knew. Such subtle signs were the common language of Minbari, especially those who were taking each other's measure.

She tucked the bag into the crook of her arm and took a steadying breath. She visualized the tensions of the past half-hour flowing away from her on the exhale, spiraling away into nothing. She would have a pleasant breakfast, and she would not pry. Much. No more than she could safely get away with.

**ooOoo**

_I must not look so worried,_ Chenann thought as she caught her own eyes in the mirror. A strange custom humans had, placing mirrors in their rooms. Did they enjoy gazing at themselves, or did they merely wish to be certain of their appearance before showing themselves to others? How sad that they must resort to an impersonal piece of glass to tell them such things. At home there was always someone to ask, and to straighten a sash or pin a collar shut correctly if necessary.

Humans seemed to live isolated lives, if these quarters were anything to judge by. She had been startled at the size of them, especially when she realized that all three rooms—sleeping room, sitting room and kitchen—were to be hers alone for the duration of her stay. Apparently this was not unusual, if she had correctly interpreted the "About Babylon 5" file she had read before retiring last night. She had a reasonable grasp of the language; she had been studying it off and on ever since Delenn's appointment to Babylon 5 years ago, and had immersed herself in it for almost all the journey here. She had felt reluctant to ask Delenn anything about the station last night—so soon after her arrival, it would have seemed rushed, intrusive. She should have asked Sheridan to see how he would respond, but she was not quite certain enough of her spoken English to feel comfortable doing that without a good night's rest. So she had prowled through the computer/comm system in her quarters—familiar enough in design for her to guess accurately how to use it, a possible good sign—and had stumbled across the informational file. It was apparently intended for visitors, a sign of openness she wasn't sure yet how to take. To volunteer so much information without any request for it seemed almost unmannerly in its directness. On the other hand, the humans did not mind anyone and everyone knowing at least something about them, which indicated a healthy sense of their own worth. And perhaps it was a courtesy in its way; she could not be the first visitor who wanted general information about Babylon 5, but did not feel up to asking for it. "About Babylon 5" had spared her some awkward moments and ensured that she would not be completely ignorant of where she was.

_If only some file could spare me this breakfast, _she thought, and was instantly ashamed of herself. Delenn was doing exactly what she should be, sharing the morning meal with her. Ravenn had raised her well. She wondered if she would ever be able to tell Delenn how proud she was of her, how much happiness it gave her to be able to say in her heart, "This is my daughter." Because that would always be true, in spite of tradition. Some part of Delenn would always be the laughing little girl she had left with such intense regret. Did that part remember her? Did Delenn even think of her as her mother, or was she simply showing good manners by so honoring her?

She fiddled with her collar pin for what must have been the twentieth time. She should not be asking such questions. They could have no proper answer. Delenn doubtless saw her as what she was: a Sister of Valeria, Tzetai, Gifted One. And an older kinswoman in some sense, and therefore deserving of politeness and respect. And that was as it should be. She had no right to hope for anything more.

She looked at herself in the mirror, trying to see herself as Delenn must. A small woman, with eyes as dark as the rich earth of her native hill-country… delicate face, pointed chin, a frame so slender and light that she looked as if a high wind might carry her off. A network of lines across her pale skin, lightly drawn, like the tiny wrinkles that gave old parchment texture and depth. Flowing grey robes, relieved here and there by touches of luminous blue… her sash, the edges of the stiff tabard she wore, the enameling on her collar pin. One corner of her mouth twitched upward in wry amusement. _I am presentable enough. Just as I was ten minutes ago, and ten minutes before that. And yet here I stand looking for the tiniest flaw, like a not-too-bright student on her first day in temple. Hardly worthy of a Sister's dignity, is it?_

A soft chime echoed through her chambers. Belatedly, she realized the sound meant someone was at the door. Delenn, no doubt, punctual almost to the second. All the years of temple discipline had left their mark, in some things at least.

She squared her shoulders and walked into the sitting room. "Come," she called, and the door opened. Delenn stood on the other side of it, a small satchel in her hand.

They looked at each other. Then Chenann realized what Delenn was waiting for. _I really must get hold of myself,_ she thought as she bowed and gestured for Delenn to come in. "Enter and welcome. I am honored to receive you."

Was it her imagination, or did Delenn look a touch disappointed at her extreme formality? Her answering bow was impeccably polite and told Chenann nothing. She stepped over the threshold and greeted Chenann with equal formality. "I hope you will enjoy breakfast," she said as she headed toward the small table near the half-wall that marked the boundary of the kitchen. "May I prepare it for you?"

As was expected, Chenann nodded and thanked her. She watched, trying not to look overly interested, as Delenn set out the satchel's contents. The tea and fruit she knew by scent, though she was hard put to keep from smiling when she recognized the tea's ingredients. Delenn knew the fine art of subtle symbolism well; Chenann would not be able to drink a mouthful without thinking of the message it contained. Diversity and uniqueness—all too appropriate subjects for morning meditation here, aboard Babylon 5. A pity she had no flowers to throw. But that was just as well. She didn't want to look as if she was having a joke at Delenn's expense.

The other items on the menu were unfamiliar. While Delenn prepared water for the tea, Chenann took a closer look at them. Two circular chunks of bread as thick as her thumbs put together, with a hole in the middle and shiny outer skins covered with small, pale seeds. A silver tub of something with an opaque lid; the substance within appeared to be white, but it was difficult to say for certain.

"Bagels," Delenn said as she finished with the water. "A type of bread very popular among humans, customarily eaten for the morning meal. Most often with cream cheese. They are very good." She took a small knife from the satchel and sliced neatly through the bagels, then pulled a little box out from against the wall. She opened the box, placed the bagels inside, closed it and pressed one corner of a keypad built into its side. Numbers flashed up at the top of the keypad; time, Chenann realized. The box began to glow; it was baking the bagels, turning their cut surfaces an appetizing golden brown. The scent of toasting bread made Chenann's mouth water. Suddenly she was eager to sample her first human-style delicacy. _With cream cheese, whatever that is!_

Two more knives came out of the satchel, these with flatter blades that had rounded ends. Made for spreading rather than cutting, Chenann guessed. How odd, to have two different kinds of knives rather than one that served both purposes. She would ask Delenn why once they had gotten a little more used to each other. Two small plates followed; Delenn placed one plate and a spreading knife by each of the two tall chairs, then pried the lid off the silver tub and set it next to the fruit between them. Chenann looked at the tub's contents with interest. White and thick, with a faint, sweet smell. Very faint; she almost couldn't smell it at all. This must be cream cheese. Probably one would spread it on the bagel… which would be very hot, so the cheese would melt a little. She wondered what the cheese tasted like, and wished she dared swipe some up on her finger. Shockingly rude behavior, of course. Not at all appropriate to the occasion, or to her status. She was suddenly very glad Delenn was not a telepath; the Universe only knew how she would regard such irreverent thoughts. Deep down, Chenann's gladness stemmed from another reason. The Gift always went hand-in-hand with strong telepathy; therefore, Delenn couldn't possibly have it. Therefore, it could not disrupt the pattern of her life. Unless she was a late bloomer, as Chenann herself had been… She pressed her lips together and turned her thoughts toward breakfast. She would not dwell on the past or regrets. She had come here for a purpose, and needed to keep her mind on it in order to see it through.

The kettle whistled. Delenn took it off its heating coil, then set out two cups. Chenann watched, silently approving, as Delenn made the tea according to the ancient ritual. Every gesture, from dipping up the first spoonful to giving Chenann's cup the final stir, was perfectly and gracefully executed. The tea sent curls of spicy-sweet steam into the air, an unexpectedly perfect complement to the faint nutty scent of the bagels and the rich odor of the fruit. Chenann raised her cup toward Delenn in toast to Valen and took a cautious sip, suppressing a smile as she did so. Another message, this mingling of different scents? A way of showing her how well things Minbari and things human could blend?

"How do you like the tea?" Delenn asked. Her expression was open, innocent; only the barest hint of intensity in her eyes betrayed a more than casual interest in the answer. _The eyes speak where the tongue cannot,_ Chenann thought. Uneasily, she wondered what her own eyes were revealing. Could Delenn see her questions, her doubts, her fears?

She glanced down at her brimming cup and inhaled the fragrant steam to cover her momentary confusion. "Delicious," she replied, when she was certain her face was under control.

Delenn smiled, as if relieved to have passed some difficult test. The extent of her relief surprised Chenann; she hadn't realized she was making Delenn that nervous. _Is she afraid of me? Why? She must know I mean her no harm!_

"This blend is my own favorite," Delenn was saying, apparently oblivious to Chenann's internal alarm. "I am glad you like it." She picked up her knife and reached for the tub of cheese. "If you will permit me, Tzetai, I will show you how one eats a bagel and cream cheese."

Tzetai again. Chenann squelched a wistful pang. What else was she expecting Delenn to call her? She made herself watch closely as Delenn scooped up a portion of cheese and spread it thickly across the top of a bagel half. "You may take as much or as little cream cheese as you wish," Delenn said. "Or you can eat the bagel plain, but it is less tasty that way." She tore off a small piece of her bagel and set it aside for Valen, then put it down on her plate and waited.

She would do this properly, Chenann decided as she picked up her own knife. She took a generous portion of cream cheese, about the size of Delenn's own, and somewhat awkwardly covered a bagel half with it. She was surprised at how difficult it was to tear out her own small offering for Valen; the bagel was extremely reluctant to yield. She felt a momentary doubt about eating it; but Delenn was now eating hers with obvious relish. Chenann eyed her own, then bit firmly into it.

It was tougher than she had expected. The shiny skin did not want to tear, and she could feel some of the small seeds burrowing between her teeth. She clenched her jaw and pulled hard, and was rewarded with a mouthful of hot bread. The cheese on top of it was faintly sweet, just as the smell of it had led her to believe. She chewed cautiously, marveling at the odd texture. Fortunately, it tasted wonderful; otherwise, the sheer difficulty of eating it gracefully would have made her inclined to refuse it. And one did not refuse shared food unless one wished to offer mortal insult.

She was curious about this strange kind of bread, and searched for a way to phrase her question that would not imply criticism of it. "It is different from bread at home," she said after the third bite. "Do you know how it is made?"

"It is boiled first, and then baked," Delenn answered. She seemed cheerful now, perhaps mellowed by food. "Or so Susan tells me. Commander Ivanova. I will take you to meet her later today."

Chenann picked up a piece of fruit. "She is a friend of yours?"

"A good friend," Delenn said. Her smile did not change, but her voice held a hint of challenge.

"I would be honored to know her," Chenann said mildly. Confusion glimmered in Delenn's eyes, and a part of Chenann was glad to see it. _You do not know me,_ she thought; _do not presume to know what I will think, or why I am here. I will tell you when it is time. _Then, suddenly, she felt sad. She didn't want confusion, unease, distance between them; she wanted trust. She wanted affection, if she was honest with herself, though she knew that was unrealistic. At most she could hope for a certain friendliness. Genuine love, as they had shared so long ago, could only come with time. They had not had that, she and Delenn. She had made a point of following Delenn's life as much as she could, but Delenn had not been old enough to do so in turn. They were strangers to each other; it was time she accepted that.

Delenn was looking at her, frowning. Concerned. And trying not to show it, lest she infringe on Chenann's private thoughts. "Are you all right, Tzetai? You are still tired from your journey?"

The perfect excuse. Chenann tilted her head "yes." "I am not so young as I was. A little rest after breakfast would be welcome."

"Have some more tea." Delenn topped off Chenann's cup with a gentle smile. "I will leave you to yourself for the morning if you wish—and then, perhaps, I will show you a little of the station this afternoon. Before dinner—John and I would be most honored if you will dine with us this evening."

She was not quite sure of Chenann's answer; the slight upward lift of the last word betrayed her uncertainty. Chenann bowed her head, accepting the invitation, and picked up her teacup. "The honor is mine."

They sipped tea and ate fruit in silence, and Chenann gradually recovered her equilibrium. She would have that rest, if only to be ready for this evening. To her surprise, she was rather looking forward to it.


	7. Chapter 7

John ran a brush through his hair one last time, then surveyed the results in his bathroom mirror with satisfaction. Not a hair out of place. His uniform, laundered and pressed just that afternoon, was equally perfect—not a wrinkle or speck of lint anywhere. His appearance was impeccable enough to properly honor three prospective mothers-in-law; it certainly ought to reassure Delenn, who was as nervous as a cat on hot deckplates about this dinner. He wasn't entirely sure why. Granted, presenting your intended to your parents wasn't always an easy thing; but Chenann of Valeria wasn't exactly a formidable battleaxe dead set against him, at least not from what he'd been able to tell. Quite the opposite, in fact. She was quiet and unassuming, with a gentle manner remarkably like her daughter's. He rather liked her, even on barely a day's acquaintance. He was sure she would like him too, so long as he did nothing blatant to embarrass himself.

He'd surprised her by greeting her in Adronado—clearly, she hadn't expected him to know a Minbari language, let alone speak it correctly. He wasn't anywhere near fluent yet, of course, and he knew it—but he hoped his use of Adronado, little as it was, would show Chenann that he loved and valued Delenn for her Minbari heritage as well as her more recently developed human traits. He loved her for everything she was… more than he knew how to say, sometimes, except in long, tender kisses or little gifts bestowed just for the pleasure of watching her smile.

He shook himself out of his daydreams, smoothed his lapels and checked his watch. He'd be a little early if he left now, but that might be just as well. He and Delenn would have some time to themselves before the guests descended in force. Maybe he could calm her down a little.

He was smiling as he strolled down the corridor to Delenn's quarters. She'd been so funny earlier that afternoon, when she'd stopped by his office on her way to pick her mother up for a quick tour of the station. Hesitantly, without looking at him, she'd suggested that perhaps he should confine himself to English at dinner: "The Tzetai has had little chance to practice your language, and would welcome the opportunity, I am sure." He'd watched her twist her fingers as she talked, the way she did when she felt compelled to speak of subjects she found awkward, and had simultaneously felt sorry for her and wanted to laugh. She was trying so hard not to bring up his limited command of Adronado, or to imply that she was afraid he'd screw up any phrase he attempted. He'd thought of telling her it was all right to just come out and say it, but by now he knew her well enough to know she'd be ashamed he'd noticed. So he'd pretended not to hear the tension in her voice and heartily agreed with her suggestion. The relief and gratitude in her eyes had been more than worth it.

_The First Commandment of Minbar,_ he thought as he drew near her door. _Thou shalt not give offense._ Well, he would do as she asked and confine himself to English tonight—except for one or two phrases he'd been practicing, in case a chance to use them presented itself. He was certain he had them down cold. He ought to speak at least a little Adronado every day just to keep himself from backsliding—and if he could further impress upon his mother-in-law-to-be his esteem for things Minbari, so much the better. Delenn, he was sure, would be pleasantly surprised.

He felt briefly disappointed when Mayan answered the door; he'd forgotten she was Delenn's houseguest. She bowed formally, then smiled at him in a decidedly un-formal manner. "Come in and talk some sense into your beloved," she said, her face and voice wryly affectionate as she gestured toward Delenn. "Lennier and I have both been trying, but we have done no good. Now she is fretting over the thickness of the cushions. Please—come and tell her she is being absurd."

"I've never been much good at that," he said with an answering smile as he stepped over the threshold. "But I'll give it a shot."

Delenn was wearing red and gold, a becoming combination he hadn't seen her in before. She was kneeling on one cushion by the low table in the center of the sitting room, with another clasped in her arms. The expression on her face made John think of the White Rabbit on his frantic way to the Mad Hatter's tea party. As he knelt down beside her, she looked up at him. "I can still feel the floor," she said, eyes wide with distress. "And there is no time to get other cushions. Lennier must go for the Tzetai in ten minutes."

He took the cushion from her arms and set it down on top of another one. "Here. Try two at once and see what that feels like. I can sit on the floor; I've never been too comfortable kneeling for a long time, anyway."

She got up and moved to his other side, knelt on the doubled cushions, and after a moment reluctantly nodded. "This will do. It will have to." She cast an eye over the table, chewing her lower lip. "I keep having a terrible feeling that I have forgotten something..."

"Looks the same as when you had me to dinner." He smiled. "And I slept through all the meditation. I guess I'm lucky you didn't throw me out on my ear."

"A painful spot to land on," she said, with a glimmer of her usual humor. "Though some might say you deserved it, snoring like that."

He gave her a mock scowl. "I do not snore."

"I must beg to differ," Lennier said from a corner, where he was lighting one last candle. "I have since observed sleeping humans in various... colorful... places on-station, and Marcus assures me that the sound they make—which is also the sound you made—is in fact snoring."

John stared at him, then turned back to Delenn with raised eyebrows. "Did you know he was going out bar-crawling?"

"Marcus would not let him come to harm," she replied. Her expression was lighter now, and her voice held a touch of laughter. _Much better,_ John thought. Between the three of them and his father, they could probably joke Delenn out of her tension all evening if they had to. He wondered if Chenann was nervous, too. It couldn't be easy for her either, spending time with a daughter she'd seen only twice in her whole life. If Delenn and Lennier were anything to judge by, the Minbari—or at least, the religious caste—placed great store by correct behavior; and what was the correct behavior in a situation like this one? Delenn at least had developed a remarkably human-like capacity for improvisation, which her mother likely hadn't. He resolved to be as charming as possible to Chenann this evening; she and Delenn would both enjoy this dinner if he had anything to say about it.

A soft chime at the door announced his father's arrival. Lennier bowed to David Sheridan, welcomed him and slipped out to fetch the guest of honor. "Everything looks beautiful—especially you," David said to Delenn with a warm smile as she hastily stood to greet him. They exchanged bows, and he sniffed the air. "Smells good, too. Your handiwork?"

She shook her head. "Lennier's. He is much better at ceremonial meals than I; I am afraid my talents extend only to flatbreads and other simple dishes."

"Like flarn," John chimed in.

"Oh, but flarn is not simple. To prepare it correctly takes great skill and practice."

"Really? I guess I didn't do so badly then."

She gave him an affectionate look. "No. Not so badly at all." They held each other's gaze for a moment; then Delenn gestured gracefully toward Mayan and David. "David, may I present Shaal Mayan, poet of the First Tier and holder of the Crystal Star?" As Mayan stepped toward them, Delenn continued. "Mayan, this is David Sheridan."

As David bowed to Mayan, John took Delenn's hand and smiled down at her. "You look a lot better than you did five minutes ago," he said. "Almost as if you might live through this evening."

"Is it so obvious?"

"Not anymore," he answered, congratulating himself on his truthful yet diplomatic response. _I think I'm starting to get the hang of this tell-the-truth-but-save-face-thing..._

The door whispered open. They held each other's gaze for one last moment before turning to face the new arrivals.

**ooOoo**

Lennier was quite prompt, Chenann noted with approval as Delenn's aide escorted her out of her quarters. Whatever some might mutter about the dangers of prolonged exposure to alien ways, it did not seem to have affected this young man, nor to have altered Delenn's ability to train him properly. Just for a moment, she amused herself with a vision of Callenn aboard this station, having to cope with its dazzling variety of sentients. What he would make of tonight's dinner, she could only imagine. Simply sitting at the same table with a human, much less sharing food with one, would take more tact than she suspected Callenn had ever possessed.

What would it be like, sharing a meal with a human? And not just any meal, nor any human. A ceremonial dinner, eaten in company with the Starkiller. _I ought to stop thinking of him that way. Delenn's own reports have shown me he is more than that—and how can I make a true judgment of his worth if I remain bound by such an image?_ Still, it was difficult. Starkiller was all she knew of Sheridan, except for the sketchy acquaintance of a day; and when one knew nothing real of another, it was frighteningly easy to fall back on false portraits and prejudice.

She wondered what Lennier thought of the man who held Delenn's heart. Lennier's affection for Delenn ran deep; she could sense it. Did he find Sheridan worthy of her? Part of her wanted to ask him if he did, and why. But such bluntness was highly indelicate. She was not yet so desperate as that.

This dinner could tell her much about Sheridan if she kept her eyes open. His attitude toward Minbari rituals, for one thing; how he dealt with them would say much about his understanding of and respect for Delenn. She gathered humans cared little for ritual. If Sheridan showed disregard for proper behavior this evening, it might well be a sign that he saw Delenn as wholly human, and her Minbari heritage a mere insignificant detail. With such a man, Delenn could not be who she was; the mask of humanity could never come off, and she would be always torn between her desire to please her lover and her need to be true to her own soul. Chenann would do a great deal to save her daughter from that.

Or was she misjudging him again, jumping to conclusions where there were none yet to be made? He had spoken in Delenn's language, which indicated at least some respect for things Minbari. And his manner toward Delenn, from what little she had observed, showed love mixed with more than a little admiration. Assuming she was reading him correctly, of course. On the other hand, love by itself was not enough. Without genuine understanding, one might easily love an image rather than the real person. Was it truly Delenn whom Sheridan loved, or only who he thought she was?

As if sensing her misgivings, Lennier said, "Captain Sheridan has been looking forward to this dinner. Our ways greatly interest him, and he has proved an apt student of them."

"Perhaps this evening I may come to know him better," Chenann replied.

They were approaching Delenn's quarters. The door opened, and Lennier gestured for Chenann to precede him inside. As she stepped through the doorway, she saw Sheridan and Delenn standing close together, hand in hand. They were gazing at each other in a way that made Chenann swallow hard. _Ravenn used to look at me like that…_

Then Delenn came toward her, and the moment was broken. Recalling her manners, Chenann bowed to her. Delenn, anxious but controlling it well, introduced her to the only member of the dinner party she didn't know: David Sheridan, John Sheridan's father.

She regarded him with interest. This man would be as a foster father to Delenn, if the impending wedding took place. Just as his son had, he surprised her with a gracefully executed bow of greeting and a short phrase in Adronado—though his accent, she noted, was better. There was a gentleness in his face she liked, and a friendliness that made itself felt without being overwhelming. Perhaps Delenn was in better hands with these Sheridan men than she had thought.

She watched John Sheridan surreptitiously as they took their seats. He was the only one lacking a cushion; instead of kneeling, he sat cross-legged on the floor. When she felt the double thickness of fabric under her own knees, Chenann guessed why. Her estimation of Sheridan rose a notch; he was willing to endure discomfort for her sake. Or perhaps for Delenn's, knowing she would want her mother to be comfortable. He did look awkward, with his long legs folded up and his knees perilously close to bumping the low table. Clearly, he was unaccustomed to such a posture. But he endured it with good humor; indeed, apart from the slight tension caused by his less-than-graceful position, both body and face told her Sheridan was enjoying himself. Perhaps Lennier was right about him. The next hour or so would tell.

When all were seated, Lennier served the meal with quiet efficiency before kneeling back down in front of his own filled plate. The dinner was wholly Minbari, Chenann noted with wry amusement; no pointed blending of Minbari and human foodstuffs here. Cooking foods of Earth ritually would have posed quite a problem; no guidelines existed for such a thing, and one did not trifle with occasions like this by inventing rituals on the spot. The flarn smelled particularly appetizing, though the flatbread and the braised kenar leaves looked and smelled good as well. The ritual spices, as familiar to Chenann as the sound of her own voice, tickled her nose pleasantly. She noted that neither of the Sheridans showed any inclination to start eating; either they were better informed than she had expected or Delenn had briefed them well.

After a brief invocation of Valen's blessing, Delenn picked up her utensil—the signal for everyone else to do the same. She set aside a small portion of flarn for Valen, and the rest of them followed suit—even the humans, Chenann noted with surprised approval. Delenn raised a bite of flarn to her lips, ate it and set her utensil down for the first meditation. This, too, the Sheridans did as if it were the most natural action in the world. Chenann was quietly impressed. Either John Sheridan was putting on quite the performance for her sake, or he genuinely understood and appreciated at least this Minbari ceremony. And if he understood one, even dimly, he could learn to understand more. Her heart lightened at that thought, and she suddenly realized just how much she wanted this marriage to be the right thing. She would discourage it if she had to, but she much preferred to be able to bless this union that Delenn so clearly wanted. _They love each other. I can see that already. Even if he is wrong for her, it will cost her a great deal to part from him. Better if she does not have to… especially after all she went through for the clan's permission. _Chenann squelched the inevitable surge of annoyance at the thought of Callenn and his machinations. Now was not the time for such things; she should be meditating calmly, like everyone else.

The second and third meditations passed smoothly, though Chenann noticed Sheridan shaking his head as if to clear it after the third one. She had a sudden vision of herself as a temple novice, unused to meditative practice and in danger of falling asleep, and warmed toward Sheridan further. _He does what he finds difficult because it matters to Delenn. This is a good sign... I hope._

Delenn looked around the table with a smile. For the Sheridans' benefit, she said, "The time of meditation is over; now we may simply eat, and talk, and enjoy each other's company."

Conversation, halting at first, flowed with increasing freedom as the diners relaxed and the meal progressed. For a time Chenann allowed much of it to flow around her, content to watch and listen. David Sheridan and Mayan seemed to be getting on particularly well, sharing an avid interest in poetry. She was surprised to learn that David had read quite a bit of Minbari literature in translation; she hadn't known such works existed.

"There's one thing I'd love to do someday," David said as he speared the last kenar leaf on his plate. "I'd love to translate some of Earth's best poetry into the Minbari languages. The trick, of course, is learning your languages well enough. There's nothing worse than a clumsy translation; turns you right off reading the stuff."

"I would like to read some of your poets, whether in our tongues or not," Mayan said. "Whom would you recommend?"

"Robert Frost, maybe, or William Butler Yeats," David replied after a moment's thought. "They're a couple of my favorites—and many of their better-known works have the virtue of being short, which can be a good thing when you're trying to read in a foreign language. Keeps the brain from getting tired."

"I have been reading Yeats... at John's recommendation," Delenn said, with a smile in his direction. "It is beautiful work—full of feeling. He writes for the heart, I think; like our memory-poems."

"I remember the first Yeats poem I ever read," David said. "'When you are old and gray, and full of sleep/And nodding by the fire, take down this book/And slowly read, and dream of the soft look/Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep...'"

Smiling, John picked up the quotation. "'How many saw your moments of glad grace/and loved your beauty with love false or true;/But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you/And loved the sorrows of your changing face.'" He paused, then went on. "It's a sad poem, actually... mourning a love lost. But it's one of my favorites."

"Pilgrim soul," Chenann said. "We know this idea well."

"It is rather Minbari, isn't it?" John replied with a grin.

"You have read Minbari poetry?" Chenann asked.

"Some." He glanced at Mayan. "Mostly Shaal Mayan's work—from Delenn's sizable collection—and a few pieces by Korenn. I can just barely read some of the shorter ones in Adronado, with a lot of help from Delenn and Lennier." He paused, gave her a serious look and said in Adronado, "I have great lust for things Minbari."

Chenann stiffened. There was a shocked silence, broken only by a muffled sound from Mayan's end of the table.

"Ummm..." Sheridan said after a long moment. He swallowed, then looked around at the circle of startled Minbari faces. "I'm sorry—I seem to have said something wrong."

"It is nothing," Chenann said faintly. As she looked away from him, to allow him privacy in which to compose himself, she saw the expression on Delenn's face. Delenn was staring at him with a wounded look—mostly shock, but with a definite undercurrent of reproach. _What in Valen's name...?_

"I'm really sorry," Sheridan said. "I'm not sure what I—I didn't mean to give offense. Please accept my sincere apology."

"As I said, it is nothing," Chenann repeated, still not looking at him. Delenn had shut her eyes, as if unable to bear watching this shocking breach of etiquette. Chenann felt a flash of anger. Did Sheridan not understand that he was only upsetting Delenn by continuing to call attention to it?

"It's not nothing if it distressed you. That's the last thing I intended to do." She could see him from the corner of her eye; he was tangling one hand in his hair, clearly upset. "If there's anything I can do to—"

"You can be silent," she said firmly. "I have told you, it is nothing. Accept that."

"Oh." His voice had gone small, like a child's. "Of course." Then, mercifully, he subsided.

Silence fell once more. Delenn was having difficulty regaining her composure; the kindest thing would be to begin some harmless conversation to distract them all. But Chenann could find no words. She was still shocked herself, and more than a little disappointed... not so much in Sheridan's initial error, but in his bumbling attempts to make up for it. He had been so intent on clearing himself from any suspicion of intentional insult that he had utterly ignored Delenn's distress; a Minbari adolescent would have been more observant, and would have ceased all references to the incident at once. But this... bumptious human had kept talking of it, refusing to allow any of them to set his error aside. Chenann had done her best to save face for him, and he had ignored it. _Perhaps my first thought was right. His ease with the ritual was a performance, calculated to impress me. But when the unexpected happened, he was not prepared and so reverted to his natural behavior. And if this—insensitivity—is natural to him, then he is no fit match for my daughter. No fit match at all!_

"I wonder, David," Mayan said, as if nothing at all untoward had happened in the past several minutes, "if you might be willing to lend me some of your Yeats while I am here. I would very much like to read it."

_Valen bless her,_ Chenann thought, as David replied and Lennier added a comment of his own. Within a minute or two, conversation resumed something like normally, at least among half the guests. Chenann busied herself with the remains of her flatbread, pretending to listen with great interest while debating what she should say to Delenn. She would leave well enough alone for the moment; Delenn had suffered enough this evening. But she would have to speak her mind soon, no matter how difficult either of them found it.

She snuck a last glance at Sheridan, and was gratified to see him gazing uncertainly at the top of Delenn's bowed head. Delenn was finishing her flarn with immense concentration; her posture told Chenann she was still upset, but beginning to calm down. At least Sheridan now appeared to have some sense that he had distressed her. Perhaps he was not completely hopeless.

_I don't know._ Chenann shredded the last morsel of flatbread, suddenly annoyed at her own indecisiveness. _I simply_ _don't know._


	8. Chapter 8

There were only the three of them left now: Mayan, herself and John. Delenn still couldn't look at him. If she met his eyes, she would likely say something both of them would later regret. Silently, she began to gather up the plates. Across the table from her, John did the same. As he started to hand them to her, Mayan intercepted him and took them. Delenn fled to the kitchenette, resolved not to come out until John had gone.

His subdued "Goodnight," was barely audible over the sound of running water. A moment later, Mayan came in and set down her burden at the side of the sink. She gave Delenn a questioning look, which Delenn understood as clearly as if Mayan had spoken: _Do you want to talk about it?_

She shook her head and ducked back into the main room, where she collected the dirty silverware. When she re-entered the kitchenette, Mayan was washing plates and setting them in the small dish rack. Delenn picked up a towel and began to dry them. Meticulous attention to erasing every spot of moisture, however, could not stop her thoughts from churning over the disastrous end to the dinner. _If he had only stuck to his own language, everything would be fine. She was beginning to like him, I know she was. The Universe only knows what she will think of him now. What in Valen's name was he thinking?_

"You have dried the same plate three times," Mayan said gently.

Delenn flung down the towel, restraining the impulse to send the plate after it. "I cannot believe he did that. I asked him not to, and he did it anyway. How could he? How could he be so... so..."

"What?"

"Careless. Heedless of what I wanted. I was afraid he would say the wrong thing, and I was right." She set the plate down and sagged against the counter, with a mournful look at Mayan. "He has what the humans call a 'tin ear' for our language. Sometimes he cannot even hear himself making the most dreadful mistakes. And he chooses this evening, of all times, to show off!" Renewed agitation propelled her upright. She snatched a glass from Mayan's hand and began wiping it with furious intensity.

"I thought it was funny," Mayan said.

Delenn shot her a wounded look, then attacked the glass with fresh vigor.

"Give me that before you break it." Mayan pried the glass from Delenn's fingers. She gave it a last swipe and put it away. "You are angry because he disobeyed you. Yes?"

"He made a promise. And then he broke it."

"And has he done such a thing before?"

"No," Delenn murmured after a pause.

Mayan turned to face her, leaning against the sink's edge. "He is human, Delenn. You know better than I how little store humans put by correct behavior, and how much by kindness of intent. He made a mistake—but he meant to help. I am sure of it."

With a sharp exhale, Delenn half-turned away. She did not wish to discuss it any longer—not least because she knew deep down that Mayan was right. Her anger was ebbing, which distressed her… and it shouldn't. She could not recall ever wanting to be angry at John before. Something lay beneath the anger, something she found so troubling that she would rather stay infuriated with the man she loved. No, she definitely did not want to continue this conversation.

"I saw his face when he left," Mayan said softly. "He is at least as distressed with himself as you are."

_Tell her the subject is closed. Say you are tired and wish to go to bed. _"That does not make me feel better," Delenn heard herself saying, and cursed her own ambivalence. _I do not wish to delve into this, and yet here I am offering Mayan every encouragement to do so! Whatever it is must need dealing with, then…_

"Would you like to go and tell him what a fool he was? I think he knows it already, but if it would ease your feelings..."

"You don't want me to stay angry with him. Why?"

"Because I saw the way you looked at each other before Tzetai Chenann came in. And how your eyes were shining all last night, with every word you said about him. You don't really want to be furious with him—or at least, not for very long."

"I think that is part of why I am angry," Delenn said slowly. "I don't like feeling this way toward John, and I resent his having caused it." _And I am also hiding from something—but what?_

"Then don't. Accept tonight as a well-intentioned blunder and later, when you are calmer, explain to him exactly how he erred. He does not seem a stupid man, and he loves you a great deal. He will not make the same mistake twice."

Delenn slumped against the counter. "Once was enough. Whatever I say later, the damage has been done. The Tzetai doubtless thinks he has the manners of a Centauri free-trader, with all the sensitivity of a clod of dirt and no respect for our ways. And now she is to bless my wedding him? I will be lucky if she merely stays silent, and does not try to argue me out of it."

Mayan cocked her head. "And if she does, would you listen?"

"No! But that is not the point!"

"Then what is? You know who he truly is, and how he truly feels. Why does it matter so much what Tzetai Chenann believes, if you know she is wrong?"

_This is what I was hiding from,_ Delenn realized. _Because it does matter, more than I ever would have thought._

Slowly, the words took shape. "Over these past few weeks, I have watched John with his father. There is a kind of love between them that I have not known for a long time. When my father died, I thought it was gone forever. And then Chenann—I know I am being foolish. She has not been a mother to me since I was a tiny child. I thought I had come to terms with that. I _had_ come to terms with that. But some small part of me cannot help hoping…"

"That you could have a mother after all?"

Delenn nodded. "And that she would accept John and learn to love him as I believe David has come to love me. We would be a family… all of us." She paused, staring off into the middle distance. "I do not understand why I should need this now. But I do."

"Perhaps because until now, you have had no choice," Mayan suggested. At Delenn's questioning look, she continued. "All your life, Tzetai Chenann has been a mother in name only, given the honor of joining the Sisters of Valeria almost before you were old enough to remember her. That is the way things were, so you learned to accept it. You did not expect her to come here, did you?"

Delenn shook her head.

"But she did—against all expectation, all tradition, everything you and even she had believed possible. She has come here to do what a mother does for her daughter—to see the man she has chosen, and assure herself that he will make her child happy. She is acting a mother's part, and so has opened a door you both had believed closed. Not so strange, surely, that you should want to walk through it."

Silence fell as Delenn pondered that thought. Then, slowly, she began, "What if…" _What if the door slams shut in my face? What if she is disappointed in me, or I in her?_

Warm hands closed over hers, and she found herself looking into Mayan's eyes. "It will be all right, Delenn. Whatever is meant to happen will happen. The Universe knows what it's doing."

Delenn gave the ghost of a laugh. "How often have I said those very words…"

"True words. Believe them." Mayan pressed her hands, then dropped them. "You look exhausted, and I want to take a last stroll around the garden. I will not be long; we can talk when I return, if you are still awake."

"Over cups of tea, as we used to do. " Despite the evening's catastrophe, Delenn felt her spirits lift. It felt so good to be with Mayan again… "Mayan?"

At the door, Mayan turned. "Yes?"

"What do you think of him?"

Mayan gave her a crooked smile. "I think he is a great lumbering human, with atrocious table manners—and a kind and noble heart. And I am not at all surprised you love him as you do."

**ooOoo**

_You idiot_, Sheridan told himself for what must have been the hundredth time. He was tired of thinking it, but he couldn't seem to stop. Bad enough to have said the wrong thing—even worse to have screwed up as spectacularly as it appeared he had. Worst of all to have blundered in some way he didn't begin to understand… something that went far beyond a simple slip of the tongue, to judge from everyone's reaction. Especially from Delenn's reaction. And as upset as she was, he couldn't even ask her what he'd done.

He scowled at the spotless garden path beneath his feet, wishing for a stone or a few twigs or dried leaves to kick. Sometimes the groundskeepers were too efficient. He'd hoped a stroll through the Zen garden would calm him, but so far it hadn't worked. _I ought to head home and go to bed and hope I don't have nightmares about endless dinner-table conversations with aliens. Probably with me naked._

Instead of turning toward the exit, he walked further down the path. He knew what he was hoping for, even as he told himself not to expect it—that Delenn would appear, and they could talk this out. The evening had been a sobering reminder of how little he still understood the Minbari, despite his best efforts. _Obviously, I haven't been trying hard enough. What with running a station and fighting a war, I've hardly got time for cultural studies… but maybe I need to make time, before I end up doing something _really_ awful._

He stopped in front of a patch of narcissi, inhaling their subtle fragrance. As always, they reminded him of Delenn: delicate, graceful, seemingly fragile, but tougher and more adaptable than they looked. Maybe he should bring her some, as a first step toward making up. Or was that too human a gesture just now? What did Minbari males do to apologize to ruffled women? He supposed he could ask Lennier—no, somehow he had a feeling that wouldn't be a good idea. With a faint groan, he sat down on the nearest stone bench and rubbed his temples. His head was starting to ache. If he couldn't dream up a way of apologizing to Delenn, how in the name of God was he going to make things right with Chenann? And yet he had to somehow, for Delenn's sake.

A soft rustle of silk made him look up. The eager expression on his face died as he saw who the new arrival was. "Oh—it's you," he said, then kicked himself. _Nice going, John. You just went and insulted another Minbari. What do you have planned for an encore?_

"I am sorry to be such a disappointment," Mayan said, sounding amused. "But if you do not mind my company, may I sit awhile?"

He moved over to make room for her on the bench. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded." He paused. "Or am I not supposed to say that?"

"This is what humans do when they make a mistake? Apologize in words?"

"Yes. In actions too, sometimes. Generally when words aren't enough, or if they just can't be said." He ran a hand through his hair, with a rueful expression. "Obviously, that isn't the Minbari way."

"You are partly right," Mayan said. "In situations like tonight's, when one has said or done something incorrect, we begin with a verbal apology. What happens next depends on the response of the person offended."

He waited for her to continue, but she merely looked at him. "You're going to make me work this out for myself, aren't you?"

She smiled at him. "Is that not the most useful approach?"

He grinned back. "So it is." His smile faded into a thoughtful look as he replayed the evening's conversation in his head. "I said… what I said, and then said I was sorry, and then Chenann said it was nothing." He frowned. "So what does that mean?"

"Exactly what it says. It was nothing."

"But it wasn't nothing. The look on her face—you saw it. Whatever I said, it really bothered her." He paused, then continued in a subdued voice. "What exactly did I say, anyway—if it's not a breach of etiquette to ask?"

To his surprise, Mayan laughed, then looked embarrassed. "Now it is my turn to apologize; I should not be so amused at your expense. If my command of English is correct, you told Tzetai Chenann that you had great lust for things Minbari. You intended a less—intense—term, did you not?"

"Oh, God. No wonder. " He struggled to control his face, torn between embarrassment and an overwhelming desire to snicker. Then he remembered Delenn's distress, and shame won. "So I made a clumsy sexual innuendo to my future mother-in-law; and you're telling me that's nothing?"

"I am not telling you. Tzetai Chenann did. That makes all the difference."

His hand went back to his hair. "Okay, I'm just slow tonight. I still don't get it."

"Think a moment," she answered, with the unflappable calm he sometimes found so maddening in Delenn. "You will understand."

They sat in silence for a time. "One question," he said. "For a Minbari, is it lying to say something you don't mean in order to gloss over an awkward moment?"

"Not if the intent is to spare another shame."

"So Tzetai Chenann said it was nothing even though it obviously wasn't, in order to spare my feelings."

"And to give you time to compose yourself, and also to allow the rest of us to overlook it."

"And I threw that right back in her face, by continuing to apologize," he said slowly. "She gave me an out, and I didn't take it. Hell, I didn't even see it." He looked her full in the face. "You must think I'm an awful idiot. Delenn must think I'm an awful idiot. I _am_ an awful idiot."

Mayan shook her head. "No. You are simply inexperienced. You reacted instinctively, as if to one of your own people, which turned out to be wrong. Any of us likely would have done the same in your place."

"And all because I couldn't resist the chance to show off," he murmured. "Poor Delenn. I screwed things up pretty good, didn't I?"

"Delenn will get over it," Mayan said. "As for Chenann, well…"

He gave her a half-smile. "Got any advice?"

"I would say, begin again as if none of this had happened. Take the opportunity she gave you, and start over. Beyond that…" She turned her right hand palm upward, in the Minbari equivalent of a shrug. For the first time since they'd begun talking, she looked uncertain. "I wish I could tell you something of use. But I do not know her well enough to advise you."

"And Delenn doesn't, either."

"No."

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Mayan about that—he still didn't completely understand the complex relationship between Delenn and her mother. On second thought, he chose to restrain his curiosity. The story, whatever it was, was Delenn's to tell—and if she didn't want to, it wasn't his place to inquire elsewhere. "Anyway, thanks for setting me straight." He paused, seeking the right words for what else he wanted to say. "Delenn's told me about you; I know how much you mean to her. It means a lot to me to know you're on our side."

"You make her happy," Mayan said. "Even after so little time here, I can see that."

He sighed. "I hope Tzetai Chenann will."

"Do you sing, Captain?" Mayan asked.

He looked startled, then grinned. "Passably well, I'm told. Why?"

"I would like to hear you, if you do not mind. Indulge me?"

"Now?" He shrugged. "All right." He stood and drew a breath, then let it out. "I don't know how well you know Earth music, and I'm afraid I don't know many Minbari songs. Did you want to hear anything in particular?"

"Whatever is in your heart to sing." She grinned at him. "You will sound best that way."

_ From the heart._ He thought of Delenn, and suddenly the song was there. Words he hadn't sung in years came to him, line by line. He relaxed into the music, holding Delenn's image in his mind's eye. He heard his own voice echo back to him, smooth and clear and rich.

"'My days are brighter than morning air/Evergreen pine and autumn blue/But all my days were twice as fair/If I could share my days with you...

"My nights are warmer than firecoal/Incense and stars and smoke bamboo/But nights were warm beyond compare/If I could share my nights with you…'"

He shifted smoothly into the B section of the song, opening the back of his throat to reach the higher notes. He was dimly aware of Mayan, watching him with an appreciative look. "'To dance in my dreams/To shine when I need the sun/With you to hold me when days are done/And oh, my dearest love/If you will take my love/Then all my dreams are truly begun…'"

Back to the A section, dropping smoothly to the rolling low note that began the final verse. "'And time weaves ribbons of memory/To sweeten life when youth is through/But I would need no memories there/If I could share my life with you.'"

He could almost hear the piano accompaniment in his head as the last, long note died away. Mayan sat silent for a moment, apparently still lost in the music—the highest compliment she could have paid him.

"Lovely," she said, her smile deepening. "Is it yours?"

"I wish I could say yes. It's from a musical—a play with music—written, oh, not quite three hundred years ago. _Pippin_. About the son of a famous king in what we call the Dark Ages, searching for his own place in the world his father made." He wandered in front of the narcissi, gazing down at them as he spoke. "That particular piece is Pippin's love song to his lady. He had trouble with his romance, too."

"Things will work out," she said.

He suddenly realized how tired he was. "It's time I turned in. May I walk you back, or did you want to stay awhile?"

"I will go with you." She glanced away from him, as if embarrassed. "I do not know what Delenn has told you of my last visit here… but I am not entirely at ease walking these halls alone." She looked back at him, her expression troubled. "I cast no aspersions on the security of your station, you understand. It is only what you call a 'knee jump' reaction."

He couldn't quite smother a chuckle at that, and was relieved when she laughed, too. "I have said it incorrectly?"

"Since you ask, yes. 'Knee-jerk' is the phrase you were looking for."

"Ah. I knew it was something that started with 'j'. You have some of the strangest expressions in your language."

"So Delenn tells me," he said as they left the Zen garden behind.

**ooOoo**

They parted at the door to Delenn's quarters, Sheridan taking his leave with a quite respectable bow. Mayan watched him go, then punched in the entry code and stepped inside. The sitting-room lights were at half-strength; those in the sleeping chamber beyond glowed bright. Mayan suppressed a sigh; she had hoped Delenn would be asleep. At any other time, she would have loved to talk—but just now, her palms itched with the need to write. Her mind was full of John Sheridan, and she wanted to get the impressions down while they were still fresh.

She opened the bedroom door and breathed a sigh of relief. Delenn lay curled under a blanket, breathing in the slow pattern of deep sleep. Moving quietly, Mayan went and rummaged in her bag for her writing tools. Hands full of paper, brushes and ink, she ordered the lights low, then retreated into the sitting room. As she spread her materials over a convenient low table and settled down to work, she spared a thought for Chenann. For all her brave words to Sheridan, she really had no idea how—or if—things would work out. _I can only hope so… for all of them._

**ooOoo**

There was no timepiece nearby to tell her the hour, but Chenann knew it was late. Far past time for her evening meditations to have settled her for sleep. Yet she remained wakeful, though the candle had burned to a stub scarcely as big as her thumb. _I have knelt here so long, my knees are getting stiff—and I am no nearer knowing what to say to Delenn. How does one tell a daughter that her intended is unsuitable, and she must give him up?_

For a moment, she allowed herself to hope that the evening's disaster might make her distasteful task easier. Such things often served to open people's eyes… but no, she had seen the way Delenn looked at him earlier. It would take more than one blunder, however serious, to make her change her mind.

She stood abruptly, assailed by indecision. It _was_ only one blunder, after all. Perhaps she was rushing to judgment. The look Delenn and Sheridan had shared came back to her, and she clenched her hands together in frustration. _No wonder I cannot think what to say. I cannot even make up my mind whether Sheridan is truly unsuitable or not!_

She schooled herself to relative calm and replayed the dinner in her mind. Up until the moment of catastrophe, Sheridan had seemed perfectly acceptable… more than that, if she was honest. There was a warmth to him, a concern for others' comfort that would have done any Minbari proud. She had begun to like him, she realized—which had made his sudden, gross lack of sensitivity doubly disappointing. _Does that lie at the heart of my judgment—disappointment? If so, then my judgment is flawed. I owe him a chance to show himself clearly._

She crouched down and blew out the candle. _I will ask him for a tour of the station… all the places Delenn did not have time to show me. Including the ones that I gather are full of surprises. Something is bound to occur that will make him act on instinct, and allow me a glimpse of his true self. No performances, no carefully planned speeches—only the unexpected. Then I will know who I am dealing with._

"Lights low," she said to the room at large, then took off her silk slippers and climbed into bed. Her decision made, it was easy to reach the first stage of meditation for sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

_ He was walking somewhere, alone. A beach; he felt sand shifting under his feet, heard the faint whisper of grit beneath his heavy shoes. He could see nothing beyond his own limbs, which moved through swirls of thick, silvery fog._

_ He knew this place. He could sense that, despite being unable to make out a single visual detail. This beach was familiar; he'd come here often, starting as far back as he could remember. He knew what it would look like when the fog lifted—a shimmering stretch of white sand, water impossibly turquoise, a dark headland rising out of the surf several kilometers distant like the back of a gigantic whale. The sky would be one shade bluer than the water, shot with streaks of gold and rose. This was his beach—his private place, where no one else could come._

_ He heard voices then, where there should be no sound save the surf and his own footsteps. Distant at first, garbled, but clearing as they grew louder. "Calm down, Mr. Garibaldi." "What happened, Mr. Garibaldi?" Over and over, those two questions, overlapping in a slow crescendo. As the voices rose in volume, the fog began to glow: pale pink at first, then gold, then burning white. The rising light burned the fog away. As the last shreds cleared, the voices fell silent._

_ He turned away, blinking, from the early-morning sun that hung before him in an impossibly blue sky. His gaze fell on the headland, whose summit lay shrouded in gray mist. As he stared at its dark bulk, he suddenly felt chilled. Something cold and dark was near, so close it made his skin prickle. A freezing tendril of darkness reached out and draped itself around his neck, boring into skin and muscle with a cold that burned—_

Garibaldi sat up in bed, shuddering. "Lights," he snapped in a hoarse whisper. The resulting blaze made him wince. He ordered the lights to half and took a long, slow look around his bedroom.

Yesterday's clothes lay in a pile, right where he'd stepped out of them. Daffy Duck stared down from the wall with his usual expression of crazed mirth. His PPG lay on the nightstand within easy reach, like he always left it. Delenn's meditation stone sat next to it, on top of its silk wrapping, right where he'd put it down before going to bed.

He frowned at the stone. Was it his imagination, or was the thing glowing? He reached for it with one hand, absently scratching his neck with the other. His neck itched fiercely on the right side, just above the collarbone. _That's probably what woke me up. I never have nightmares like that. Even back when I was a drunk, I didn't have them, sleeping or waking. _He rolled the stone back and forth across his palm. It felt warm, as if it had picked up his body heat. _I hope this thing's not giving me the jeebies. Kinda crazy, but I like holding it._

With the stone in his hand, the dream-born panic receded. The details remained clear, but they no longer held power to terrorize him. He let out a long breath and put down the stone, then swung his feet over the edge of the bed. He'd go get a drink of water and think over the nightmare awhile—especially that last bit, with the mysterious God-knows-what—

He was standing in his bathroom, shaking with rage, left arm raised as if to strike the small mirror over the sink. The blind fury in his eyes gave way to bewilderment even as it registered. He didn't remember getting here. He didn't remember anything since going to bed. What the hell was he doing in the bathroom in the middle of the night, about to smash the mirror to pieces with his bare hands?

He leaned against the sink and shook his head, feeling like a prizefighter who'd taken one too many punches. _I am not going to think about this any more tonight. I'm going back to bed, and I'm staying there till my morning wake-up call._

He pulled the covers up over his chilled torso, then reached across the nightstand and picked up the meditation stone. With his fist clenched around it, he ordered the lights off and settled himself to sleep.

_ He was in the cockpit of his Starfury, watching the Shadow armada that hovered around the station. The glistening black ships floated in the darkness, blotting out the stars. Still they did not fire—only drifted, waiting for some mysterious signal. They terrified him. Only the knowledge that it would mean instant death kept him from attacking the entire fleet single-handedly. Anything was better than sitting here, waiting for the end._

_ Darkness fell across the cockpit canopy. He saw a Shadow vessel looming over him, enfolding his fighter in an obscene embrace. As the Fury passed through the Shadow ship's hull, Garibaldi felt chilled to his bones. The cold was choking him. As he struggled to breathe, he sensed a dark presence near him, also fighting for breath. Waves of disorientation poured from it, overwhelming what was left of his senses. Fighting every step of the way, he slipped down into darkness..._

Garibaldi sat up with a gasp. His heart was throwing itself against his ribcage. He forced himself to take a deep breath, then another. After several seconds, he'd calmed enough to notice that Delenn's stone was still in his hand.

"Lights," he said shakily, and swung his legs out of bed. Suddenly it seemed like a good time to immerse himself in his cartoon collection.

As he headed toward the sitting room, he realized he still hadn't let go of the stone. _I should get rid of this thing. First it gives me nightmares, then I can't put it down. It's weird. And I've had enough weird to last me a lifetime._

He set it on the night table, then immediately picked it up again. _What gives? Is this thing addictive or something? Part of me wants it out the nearest airlock, the rest of me can't stand to part with it. I don't understand, damn it!_

Very slowly, he counted to ten. Then he slipped the stone into the pocket of his pajama pants. He could feel it through the thin fabric, warm against his upper thigh. That seemed to be good enough. Now it was cartoon time—and tomorrow, he'd have a few questions for Delenn.

**ooOoo**

The scent of tea brewing woke Delenn from a sound sleep. After the disaster of the previous night, she hadn't expected to sleep at all. She stretched, enjoying the unexpected feeling of well-being. _Something in my dreams must have told me all would be well. I wish I could remember what._

The other side of her bed was empty. From the kitchenette, she could hear Mayan humming. The humming stopped, then started again with a slight variation, then broke off and started yet again with the original tune. Delenn smiled. _The wedding song seems to be going well._

She got up, slipped on her morning robe and wandered into the sitting room. Mayan, pouring hot water into the teapot, smiled at her. "The late moon rises! You look better than I would have expected."

"I feel better than I would have expected." Delenn covered a yawn. "And I have decided that you are right."

"Of course I am," Mayan said, carrying the teapot and two cups to the nearby table. "About what, specifically?"

Delenn plucked two oranges from a bowl of assorted fruit and tossed one of them to Mayan. "About John. About last night. I was afraid something would go wrong, and so of course it did—and of course I overreacted. Hardly surprising, given how nervous I was." She began to peel her orange, while Mayan poured tea for them both. "He believed he was doing something helpful—and I, of all people, know him and humans better than to judge them by Minbari standards of behavior. By his own understanding, he was doing right."

Mayan grinned over her teacup. "Just make certain you get something out of it before letting him 'off the hook,' as they say. I understand human males customarily send flowers to women they have offended; make him send you a particularly large and beautiful assortment."

"Lilacs and narcissi," Delenn murmured. "Roses are the preferred flower for apologies, but narcissi are much lovelier; and lilacs... well, you would have to smell one to understand. There are some in the gardens; if you stand in the right spot, you can smell them from a long way off."

Mayan ate a section of orange, setting aside a piece for Valen, then contemplated the rest of the fruit. "It strikes me that we may want something a touch more substantial than this, if we are to go dress-buying. When are the others coming?"

"In half an hour. Ivanova said we should begin early, to 'beat the rush.'"

Mayan rocked to her feet and headed toward the kitchenette. "Is Tzetai Chenann coming?" she called over her shoulder.

"I thought I would ask her," Delenn answered after a brief pause. Then, with a note of defiance: "She is going to have a human son-in-law; it will do her good to see more of how humans behave."

"I agree," Mayan said with a grin, over the plate of flatbread she carried.

As Delenn took a piece, the door-chime sounded. "Come," she said, exchanging surprised glances with Mayan.

John stepped over the threshold, then stopped with a look of confusion. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to interrupt your breakfast."

"It is all right." Delenn gestured toward the flatbread. "Please—have some, if you wish."

"Don't mind if I do," he answered, his voice a touch too hearty.

Mayan murmured something about having to dress and exited into the bedroom. John sat awkwardly in her place, took a piece of flatbread and began to fiddle with it.

Delenn watched him shred the flatbread, berating herself for her inability to speak. _This is the man I love more than my own life, and I cannot manage a few simple words to tell him it is all right in a way he will understand. All I can manage is the Minbari way—inviting him to eat with me, to symbolize my forgiveness. Why are the words so difficult?_

The silence grew, gathered weight. She had to say something, even if it came out all wrong.

"John—" she began, just as he looked up from his pile of bread pellets and said, "Delenn, I—"

They stopped, then caught each other's gaze and laughed. "Ladies first," he said after a bit.

"No, no, please. You are my guest; it is your right."

He reached across the low table and touched her hand. "I'm sorry about last night. I wanted to show off, and I screwed up. You tell me how to make it up to you, and I'll do it."

Several delightful possibilities flashed through her mind, more than one enough to make her blush. She took his hand and held it. "I am sorry also. You made a mistake, but you meant well. I should not have been so angry."

"The stress you were under, I'm not surprised." He squeezed her fingers. "I'll accept your apology if you'll accept mine."

"As you say... we have a deal." They grinned at each other. "Would you like some tea?"

"Actually," John said around a mouthful of flatbread a short time later, "I had kind of an ulterior motive coming here. I did want to apologize, but... well, I was also hoping you might give me some advice."

She smiled at him over her teacup. "Gladly, if I can."

"Your mother asked me to take her on a tour of the station. She said she thought she'd be free around midday, so I cleared some time. I guess I'm just not sure what this means... how I should behave. I don't want to mess things up worse than I already have."

Now it was her turn to fiddle with the flatbread. "I'm sorry, but I can't help much. I think..." She paused. "I think this is a good sign—that she is willing to take another look at you. But..." A one-handed, Minbari shrug. "I don't really know her. I could more easily tell you what would offend Londo."

"Not a lot, except slights to his dignity," he answered with a faint smile.

"There is one thing," she said.

"What?"

She bit her lip, played with her hair, then dropped her hands to her lap. "Speak English?"

He left laughing, and she suddenly felt convinced the tour would work out all right.

**ooOoo**

The cartoons had done their work, chasing the phantoms from his brain long enough to permit him a couple of hours of dreamless sleep. Now Garibaldi sat in his favorite diner, fortified by an apple fritter the size of his hand and a cup of strong coffee, feeling better than he had any right to after the kind of night he'd had. He wondered if Delenn's stone had anything to do with it, or if this was just the up-all-night adrenaline surge before the inevitable crash. Whatever, he'd take it. He had bills to draw up and clients to see. A day in bed wasn't an option.

The stone was in his pocket. He'd meant to leave it behind, but the sense of having forgotten something vital was so insistent that he'd finally given in. Interesting, that it didn't seem to need to touch his bare skin. It just needed to be in his vicinity. Was it alive in some bizarre way? Did it miss him when he wasn't nearby? He started to take it out, then hesitated. Strange things had happened every time he played with it, and he'd rather not trigger some weird trance in public. He settled for giving it a pat, then let go of it and turned his attention to his second apple fritter.

"You look as if you need a refill," came G'Kar's voice from over his shoulder. "Or several," the Narn continued, nodding his head at Garibaldi's almost-empty coffee cup. "How are you keeping these days, Mr. Garibaldi?"

"Who wants to know?" Garibaldi joked. "Apple fritter?"

G'Kar eyed the pastry with distaste. "Those sugary monstrosities your people favor always wreak havoc with my stomach. Some good, fresh spoo would go down much better. Much healthier, too. You ought to try it."

Garibaldi laughed. "I'll pass, thanks."

"You really do look terrible." The concern in G'Kar's voice was almost tangible. "Is there anything I can do?"

_Yeah—mind your own business,_ Garibaldi thought, and just managed to keep from saying it. He was surprised at himself. G'Kar was good people, always had been. He didn't want to go mouthing off at one of the few people who still treated him like something other than muck on the sole of a shoe. "Actually, yeah," he said instead. He pulled out the meditation stone and set it between them on the table. "Know much about these?"

"_Sechlich'lann_," G'Kar said, raising what passed for an eyebrow. "Soul stone. That's a rough translation from Adronado, but it'll do. An unusual possession for a human."

"Delenn gave it to me. She didn't say anything about souls." A sudden, unpleasant thought struck him. "These things don't possess you or anything like that? I mean, I've been feeling some pretty bizarre things since I got it—"

He broke off as he realized G'Kar was trying not to laugh. "I apologize, Mr. Garibaldi, but the idea is ridiculous. And most unlike you, to fear such a thing. No Minbari would have anything to do with anything that smacked of soul-stealing. You were here when the soul hunters came; surely you remember Delenn's reaction."

"Okay, but this thing's been acting really strange. Maybe it has side effects on other races that the Minbari don't know about."

"Not on the Narn. I can tell you that much. I have one myself... picked it up on my travels. I find it soothing after a difficult day. They say it restores one's inner balance. I was skeptical at first, but not for long." G'Kar eyed the stone. "May I touch it?"

"Sure. Why not?"

G'Kar brushed a finger across it. Garibaldi jumped; it felt as if something was tickling his nerves. "Keyed to you already, I see," G'Kar murmured. "Just as mine is to me. The stones adapt to the auras of their owners, reinforcing that person's individual energy pattern. In a sense, they make you feel more yourself."

Garibaldi grunted. "That's getting way too mystical for me. All I know is, I don't like leaving it behind." He didn't feel like bringing up the nightmare; if G'Kar got interested enough, the two of them would be here for the next hour while the Narn puzzled over every detail. "Am I going to have to carry this damned thing around with me for the rest of my life?"

"You've been under stress lately, so you need it more," G'Kar said. " Once your balance is restored, the need to keep the stone with you will subside. In my experience, that is."

"Everybody knows my fragging business but me," Garibaldi grumbled.

G'Kar smiled gently. "I am concerned for my friend. If my concern bothers you, I will take it and myself away—but I will not stop feeling it. That is the way of friendship, is it not?"

He sounded like Delenn, Garibaldi thought after G'Kar had excused himself and left. He signaled the waitress for a refill, loosened his collar and scratched his neck, then started on his second apple fritter. Right after breakfast was his appointment with the guy whose daughter had gone missing. Then the woman who wanted him to track down her husband, who'd skipped out on child support payments. After that—

His train of thought halted as Wade approached his table, hooked a chair out with his foot and sat down, dismissing the approaching waitress with a shake of his head. "Talk to me," he murmured. "Today's the day. What's Sheridan going to be doing and when?"

_Finally_. Garibaldi squelched a pang of guilt—_poor Delenn, not even a wedding night!_ "Paperwork in his office all morning. A meeting with the Gaim ambassador at fourteen-hundred got canceled—the ambassador's down with their equivalent of stomach flu. Sometime today he's planning to talk to Zack about revamping customs procedures, but not until after fifteen-hundred or so—"

"So no one's expecting to see him for awhile. Good. As long as he isn't planning a private lunch with Delenn—"

"I doubt it," Garibaldi said coldly. The sneer in Wade's voice when he spoke Delenn's name made Garibaldi want to punch him. "I passed Lyta Alexander and Ivanova on the way here; they were talking about some shopping trip with her. Sounded like they'd all be tied up awhile."

Wade nodded. "Good. You get Sheridan to a nice, secluded table at Hanrahan's by thirteen-hundred hours. We'll take care of the rest."

Garibaldi sat back and picked up his coffee mug. "That isn't going to be easy, you know. Not after the last couple run-ins we've had."

"You backing out?"

"No, I'm not backing out." Garibaldi took a swig of coffee. "I just don't know why we have to be quite this cloak-and-dagger about it. I mean, okay, we don't want to broadcast it all over B-Five and spark a panic, fine. But we could tell Ivanova, at least. If Sheridan's lost it, I guarantee you she knows. She doesn't want a delusional commander running B-Five, any more than you or I do—and she'd want help for him every bit as much."

Wade straightened in his chair. "You been talking to her, by any chance?"

"Don't worry." Garibaldi gave him a snide grin. "I've been a good little boy."

Wade leaned forward, his expression sympathetic. "I'm sure you're right about the commander wanting what's best for this station and for EarthForce. But she and Sheridan go way back, so her loyalties may be confused. She might not see that the best thing for B-Five is to get him off it, into that psych clinic. And if he's got her suckered into his little universe, she'll fight us. Hard. Safer to just do what needs doing and let the commander deal with reality afterward. I mean, we don't want to disrupt anyone's life unnecessarily, right?"

Garibaldi toyed with his fritter. "I guess."

Wade clapped him on the shoulder, with what passed for a friendly smile. "Look, you just do your part and forget about it. You want to help him, don't you? And Earth?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Okay, then." Wade stood up, still smiling. "Hanrahan's, thirteen-hundred hours. Everything's going to be fine, Mr. Garibaldi. Just fine."


	10. Chapter 10

With her customary grave courtesy, Chenann had accepted the invitation to join them on the shopping trip. Susan and Lyta, arriving on the heels of Delenn's brief conversation with her mother, were delighted at the addition to their ranks. Now, on their way to pick up the Tzetai, Delenn wished she could feel half as pleased. "Stop worrying," Mayan murmured in her ear. "Whatever happens, will happen."

"As the humans put it, 'easy for you to say.'" Delenn sighed, then determinedly squelched her nervousness. She was tired of being afraid of her mother. It was unfair as well. So far, Tzetai Chenann had neither said nor done anything to indicate opposition to the upcoming marriage, not even after the catastrophe of the dinner. If anything, she seemed willing to give John a second chance. Delenn's imagination was simply running away with her.

"Is she really a fire-eyed ogre with three heads?" Lyta asked, with an innocent look. Delenn couldn't help laughing at the image, and her tension evaporated like morning mist. _Thank you,_ she told Lyta silently, knowing the telepath would hear and understand just how deeply she meant it.

Tzetai Chenann was waiting when they arrived. The women milled in the corridor outside her room, discussing where to go first. "I know the perfect place," Ivanova said. "Belle Dame... you know, Delenn, where you got—"

"I think I would prefer to start elsewhere," Delenn broke in. "If I understand correctly, for humans as for Minbari, the preparations are as great a part of a wedding as the ritual itself. We must therefore do this properly, and visit several places—to 'comparison shop,' yes?"

"There's a bridal store at the north end of the Zocalo—a couple of slots down from Dante's Pizzeria," Lyta suggested.

"That place?" Ivanova snorted. "We'll end up looking like couches."

"Not necessarily. They've had a few nice things in the window."

"Yeah. Once." She turned to Delenn. "You promised no ugly dresses. So why don't we just go to Belle—"

"Perhaps there are other alternatives," Mayan suggested. "Is it not for Delenn to choose?"

"Sure. Of course." Susan gave Delenn a puzzled smile. "I just thought, since you had good luck there a couple of times—"

"Ah, but we do not wish to be too lucky, too soon." Delenn smiled back. "We must do this correctly, after all, and make a morning of it. Yes?"

"Emphatically yes," Lyta said, patting the pocket where her credit chip rested. "How about we start at the north end of the Zocalo and work our way down?"

The first three places had nothing suitable, a depressing fact that Delenn recognized all too soon. They were getting closer and closer to Belle Dame... and while she would have been happy to buy there on any other occasion, she did not want Chenann to get too close a look at the merchandise. She might well be scandalized if she found out what Delenn had purchased—especially that second gown, the shimmering one with almost no shoulders that John liked so much. She had felt deliciously daring the first time she tried it on. The thought of Chenann seeing her in it—or even visualizing her in something similar—made her blush to the roots of her hair.

"You want to stop for something to drink?" Susan sounded mildly concerned. "You look a little flushed."

"That would be most welcome, yes." Anything to postpone the moment when they had to walk into Belle Dame. There was no good reason to skip it. There was every reason to go there, in fact. Delenn clung to the slim hope that the last shop before it might have something acceptable.

A forlorn hope, as she might have expected. The sales clerk, wearing a skirt and jacket that had clearly seen past lives as sofa cushions, brought out dress after dress in odd colors: not-quite-blue, not-quite-green, an uneasy compromise between white and tan, a bizarre grayed yellow that resembled dusty butter. The last straw was the cranberry-red sheath adorned with blazing purple ameboid shapes from left hip to right shoulder. Controlling a shudder, Delenn bowed to the inevitable, thanked the saleswoman, and led the way to Belle Dame.

"Hey, long time no see!" Yet another sales clerk, this one fashionably attired in a one-shoulder black silk sheath with matching shoes, bore down on them with a delighted smile. Her two-tone blonde ponytail bobbed over the clothed shoulder. The other was decorated with a crescent moon in iridescent ink. The voice and the casual greeting marked her as Rona, whom Delenn had found so helpful on her previous trips—though the last time, Rona's hair had been redder than Lyta's. The time before that, it had matched her silver tunic and slacks. "Great to see you again, Ambassador. You too, Commander. What can I do for you today?"

Briefly, Delenn explained what they wanted. If she could keep this quick enough, perhaps they could buy and get out before Tzetai Chenann had much chance to explore her surroundings. She closed her mind to the sight of the mannequin nearest her mother, which wore a thigh-length bolt of rose satin with lacy cutouts over its breasts. A matching robe, slightly longer, hung open and slightly flared to show off both pieces. From what she'd gathered on prior visits, garments like those were sleepwear...well, bedwear, anyway. Though she'd seen a few "little black dresses" almost as indecently short... Sternly, she marshaled her thoughts toward the task at hand.

Rona was giving Lyta a professional once-over. "How do you feel about green?"

"No sea foam. Other than that..." Lyta ended her answer with a shrug.

"Wait here." Rona beamed at them and then vanished into the rows of clothing racks. A minute later, she reappeared with her arms full of shimmering fabric. "Here you go. The color only redheads can get away with. Why not flaunt it?" Arm stretched to its full length to keep the hem from dragging, she handed over an emerald-green, one-shoulder gown. "You've got a nice shape; the straight cut'll show that off. At the same time, it's simple and classic enough for lots of dressy occasions; it doesn't scream 'bridesmaid' at you." She nodded toward a freestanding three-way mirror nearby. "Go on, hold it up. See how you like it."

As Lyta moved off, Rona turned toward Ivanova. "Now, for you—" She handed over a second gown, this one the delicate shade of a green apple. "Different hues, same color spectrum; much more stylish than matching dresses. Anybody can do those; you want something special. And you've got the perfect complexion for this shade. The dress is a petite; it should hit you in all the right spots." She gave Ivanova a conspiratorial grin. "I don't have to tell you where the fitting rooms are."

"Be right back." Eagerly, Ivanova headed off.

Alone with Chenann and the salesgirl, Delenn felt her palms growing cold. Rona was holding one more garment—short, lace-trimmed, the color of red wine by candlelight. "This is for you," Rona said, beaming like a small sun. "A little something for the wedding night. Not too much, I know that's not your thing... but you can't go wrong with a nice piece of silk." She raised her eyebrows suggestively. "And a little lace in all the right places...?"

"This is not for the ceremony?" Chenann was looking at the scrap of burgundy silk with innocent interest. Delenn bit the inside of her lip hard and waited for disaster.

"It's lingerie." Scenting a new customer, Rona perked up even more. "Fun stuff for bedtime." She reached under the brief skirt and unhooked something. Delenn just managed to suppress a shudder as Rona pulled out a pair of panties with a lace panel in the crotch. "I guarantee you, Captain Sheridan'll have fun with this. So will you." She held out both pieces to Delenn. "You want to try them on?"

The world seemed to stop for a moment. Delenn was sharply conscious of her mother's nearby breathing, Rona's smiling face, Lyta's concerned gaze from halfway across the room. Then Chenann spoke.

"I have not seen this color." She sounded mildly curious. "Is it native to Earth?"

"Claret—that's what the catalog calls it." Rona cocked her head at Chenann. "You're new to B-Five, aren't you? I see pretty much everyone around here; I like to people-watch when things get slow, and with that big front window right onto the food court..." She shook her head with a light laugh. "Sorry. I'm babbling. I get like that around new people. Anyway, claret is a kind of wine. Wine has lots of romantic associations for humans...a loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou, that kind of thing." She reclipped the panties to the hanger. "Which is what slinky lingerie is all about. Would you like to try some on? This one, or something else...we have lots of styles to choose from."

Delenn felt as if she'd forgotten how to breathe. Chenann's unexpected reply—"Thank you, yes"—seemed to come from impossibly far away. A hand at her elbow made her jump. She turned her head and saw Lyta, green dress draped over one arm. The other locked through Delenn's and gently pulled her toward the dress racks.

"Wait—I... she... I must—" Protesting weakly, Delenn allowed herself to be led away.

"You wanted her to get an education; well, she's getting it." Lyta didn't slacken her grip. "Come on. Help me look through these, in case I change my mind."

The last thing Delenn saw, before the bolts of bright color swallowed them up, was a delighted Rona handing Chenann a bodysuit made entirely of blood-red lace and festooned with tiny ribbons. Chenann's expression was unreadable. Delenn shuddered and turned her gaze away.

**ooOoo**

The scuffed duffel bag on the hard bed was nearly full of his meager possessions. Wade tossed in the last two wadded-up shirts and a pair of shoes, then zipped the bag and surveyed the empty room. He'd spent his last night in this scruffy dump, hopefully his last night on B5 for a long time. He could hardly wait to finish the job and get back to Earth. No more aliens, no more scum who called themselves humans but betrayed everything the Earth Alliance stood for every time they opened their mouths. Plus, there'd be a nice fat chunk of credit waiting for him to spend it. He looked forward to that most of all.

As he slung the duffel over his shoulder, the comm unit beeped. "On," he barked. No one should be calling him at this stage of the op. The screen flickered to life, showing a cat-faced woman with a scar on her cheek and spiky black hair. Even from across the room, he could tell it needed a wash. She was glaring at him, the kind of look his ex-wife used to give him.

"You Wade Smith?" she asked, in a voice as rough as her face. She spoke his name as if it soiled her mouth.

A real Miss Personality, this one. The Corps must be getting desperate. With an effort, he kept himself from matching her tone. "That's me."

Her scowl deepened. "Mr. Psi Corps said call you if something came up. Something did."

His stomach went cold. "What?"

"Engine trouble. Got it fixed now, but I'm running behind."

"How behind?"

"Hour or so, maybe more. You still want this delivery?"

He bit the inside of his lip, where she wouldn't see it. An hour's delay or more was cutting it dangerously close. According to Garibaldi, Sheridan's day was clear until around 1500 hours at least—no one would meet him or be expecting him to show up someplace much before then. The transplant would take time, as would getting the cargo from the bay to the safe room in Downbelow. He'd already told Garibaldi to set the meet for 1300; if the ship couldn't even get here until then, never mind docked and unloaded, they'd have to keep Sheridan on ice for longer than he felt comfortable with. With luck, though, they might still get the critter in place and Sheridan out of Downbelow before anyone got worried. Bureaucratic drekwork tended to run overtime, and if Sheridan wasn't expected anywhere until late that afternoon...

Gut instinct warned him they'd be cutting it too fine, but they didn't dare back out now. Clark wanted results, and if he didn't get them, heads would roll. One of them might be Wade's.

That last thought decided him. "Yeah. Make the drop-off. We'll take it from there."

**ooOoo**

"I've always been kind of a blues-and-purples person," Ivanova commented as Rona rang up her sale. Lyta had already bought her dress, and was waiting with the two Minbari by the end of the counter. "Never thought I'd own anything this color. But it's gorgeous."

"Didn't I tell you?" Smiling, Rona ran Ivanova's credit chit through the scanner. "The day I steer you wrong, you can buy ice skates for Hell." After swathing the gown in protective plastic, she handed it and the chit to Ivanova. Then, to Chenann: "You're sure you don't want anything? That thigh-length number in turquoise silk looked pretty good on you."

"I am sure. Thank you." The slight nod that accompanied Chenann's answer indicated nothing. She might have used the same gesture to any merchant on Minbar. Delenn ground her teeth, then caught herself and stopped. It was just possible that the morning's shopping had left Chenann as unruffled as she appeared. An image of her mother eyeballing a bright pink bustier-and-garters set, trimmed in white fake fur, rose in Delenn's mind. She suppressed a groan with an effort. _And perhaps I shall sprout wings and fly away_.

Chenann had tried on the pink ensemble, of course—along with several others, in varying degrees of tastefulness. To refuse any would have insulted Rona. She had not seemed particularly shocked by any of the garments, but Delenn distrusted her own ability to read Chenann. _She is a Sister of Valeria, trained in disciplines I have only read of in ancient scrolls. I scarcely know her. How can I tell what she is thinking or feeling, if she does not wish me to know?_

The question nagged at her all the way back to the residential sector. She managed to make the proper polite noises when they dropped off Ivanova and Lyta, and to offer to escort Chenann back to her own door. The two women proceeded in silence, while Delenn debated furiously with herself what to do next. Had the hour in Belle Dame lowered the Tzetai's opinion of humans? If it had, what of John's chances alone with her? Would she expect another awful blunder—perhaps even see one where it didn't exist? _I cannot know unless I ask. But if I ask such a blunt question, she will surely blame my time among humans for such rudeness. Which won't help John at all. Oh, Valen, what am I to do?_

She was no closer to an answer by the time they reached Chenann's quarters. To Delenn's surprise, her mother hesitated in the open doorway. "Will you honor me by sharing a cup of tea?"

Delenn felt cold. _She wants to talk. This cannot be good_. Mechanically, she gave the correct answering bow. "The honor is mine, Tzetai."

As was expected of a guest, Delenn sat in silence and watched as Chenann prepared two cups of nich'on tea according to the ancient ritual. Every passing second scraped like hot metal across her nerves. The hiss of hot water from the kettle, the muffled crunch of the dipper in the dried berries, the clink of stirring sticks against cups, all grated on her ears like a nail on glass. By the time she took her cup from Chenann, she wanted to scream until the bulkheads blew. Iron discipline enabled her to take the first ritual sip, but she could feel her control fraying. She allowed herself the momentary release of a glare across her cup at Tzetai Chenann's head, while Chenann's gaze was safely hidden by drinking. Even the best-mannered telepath could surely sense her agitation by now. She might as well be shouting it from a mountaintop. For the love of Valen, would the woman never speak?

Eyes on her tea, Chenann drew breath. Delenn braced herself for the worst.

"I must thank you for an... interesting morning," Chenann began.

Later, Delenn would blame that little pause in mid-sentence. As if divided in two, she watched herself set down her teacup with controlled force. "The time for politeness is over. You might as well tell me what you really think. And why you are really here."

Chenann's blank face—and her own good sense, arriving a heartbeat too late—told her how badly she had erred. The stammered apology she felt like making would only call more attention to her shocking breach of decorum. Nothing left but to brazen it out. She lifted her chin and folded her arms, in a deliberately human gesture. "Well?"

Gently, Chenann set down her own cup. "Why do you believe I am here?"

"I don't know. That is why I ask."

"I came to observe—Sheridan, humans, you. You asked for my blessing; how can I give it if I do not know whether this marriage is right for you? And how can I know that without knowing the man you love, and the ways of his people?"

It sounded so reasonable. She wanted to believe it. But she knew too well how adept a Minbari could be at hiding the truth. Lies were not required. Only reasonable-sounding partial truths that deflected attention from the whole. And Elder Callenn had agreed to this marriage much against his will...

Chenann's soft question interrupted her thoughts. "Do you have so little faith in your beloved?"

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. _Little faith? In John?_ "Forgive me, Tzetai, but you cannot know how foolish a question that is."

"Enlighten me."

The sudden chill in Chenann's voice should have made Delenn even more nervous, but the truth that sprang to her lips overrode all her fears. "He came back from the dead for me. I will lose my faith in the air we breathe before I lose it in him."

"Then I am the one you lack faith in," Chenann said, after a pause. She sounded very small.

Silence stretched between them. Delenn could read the sadness in her mother's eyes more clearly than if Chenann had put it into words. The silence became a chasm, one so wide that all the regret in the universe couldn't tell her how to bridge it.

"I don't know you," she said at last. Not a kind answer, perhaps, but honest.

Chenann bowed her head in acknowledgment. When she looked up, her eyes were very bright. She moved her hands in a gesture of peace, along with an attempt at a smile that made Delenn's throat hurt. "Your father never softened what needed to be said, either. You learned well from him."

_I'm sorry,_ she wanted to say, but knew it would do no good. Instead, she bowed with deep respect. "You are tired. I should go."

"Yes." Chenann looked down at her lap. "I will... rest awhile."

She left her mother kneeling on the floor, staring into a cooling cup of tea as if seeing down the gulf of years.


	11. Chapter 11

"You, you and you. Yeah, you. The bean pole with the pony tail." The deputy cargo foreman waved a brawny arm toward three lurkers in the front ranks of the waiting crowd. "You three, come with me. The rest of you, go home. Or wherever. We're full up for this shift."

He turned and strode toward the lift, not looking behind him to see if they were following. He knew they would be, String thought as he trailed in the others' wake. A few hours' pay for unloading cargo, even at half union rates, was a small fortune to a lurker. It meant a bed for the night someplace other than a stinking hidey-hole among waste and power conduits. Maybe a meal at one of the scruffier dives up in Brown Sector—someplace down and dirty enough not to chase them out if they had cred to spend. Maybe even a bottle to keep the demons at bay. Or all three, for those who weren't particular about the quality of their poison.

The other two knew all that, with the bitter intimacy of the long-term down and out. String had only known it for the past few days. In his real life, he did his best to keep from knowing such things. He made sure he had plenty of money, squirreled away on a dozen worlds within reach of as many different identities. Skills like that made him valuable and kept the money rolling in. And brought him jobs like this one, where the pay was high and the risk relatively low. His size and a little quick knife work the first day had kept other lurkers from bothering him, and the job itself was nothing. A quick grab—then it was up to Harrison. After that, a nice fat cred chit and a fast ship off this floating can. He'd go stay somewhere nice for awhile, somewhere tropical with good drinks. Somewhere without any stinking aliens.

He kept the smile off his face as they stepped into the lift. After today, B5 would be one of those places. Oh, not overnight. It'd take Sheridan some time to adjust, and a little more to accomplish what they wanted. But soon. No more little greenies and their alien-loving friends. Then President Clark and the Night Watch could take care of the lurkers. Once all the filth was cleaned out of the station, maybe he'd even come back. Or not.

The lift decanted them into the docking bay. The foreman stopped and turned to face them. "Okay, listen up." He jerked his head toward the beat-up skiff in the far hangar. Narn, by the look of it—one of the few not hunted down by the Centauri or turned in by their more profit-minded colleagues in the smuggling biz. String hoped it wouldn't smell too bad. "This one and the next two scheduled to dock, you help out with those wherever the regular crew says. Your good luck we've been short-handed since the Night Watch left. Don't make us regret it. Don't drop anything, don't take anything, don't buck what you're told. The shift breaks at seventeen-hundred; there's some sandwiches and sodas in the canteen." The foreman gestured toward a partitioned-off section some distance away from the ship hangars. "Once the ships are empty, you're done for the day." He tossed them three chits, small flat pieces of computer-readable plastic. "Timecard reader's by the canteen. Slide in your cards right after I get done talking, then again when you quit working. The reader'll record your time and download your credit. You got any questions your team boss can't answer, my name's Harrison. You come talk to me. Anybody need to ask anything now?"

The two genuine lurkers shuffled their feet, stared at the chits and then headed toward the card reader. String followed suit. When he slid his card into the slot, the reader's telltale lit up red instead of green. He frowned, turned the chit around and tried again.

"Problem?" Harrison had come up behind him. He sounded impatient.

"Card don't work." He held out the offending chit.

The other two lurkers had stopped to watch. Harrison waved them away. "Your cards okay? Then get going." As they moved off, he frowned at the chit. He smacked it against his hand, then polished it on his sleeve.

String spoke once the lurkers were out of earshot. "Didn't know we were using a Narn ship."

"We're not." Harrison gave the chit a final swipe. "Got a heads-up from Wade earlier. She's gonna be late. Should hit B-Five space around thirteen hundred, be docked awhile after. Customs should go pretty quick; her bona fides are good. So the plan's still on. Get the crate and place it. I'll take it from there."

String nodded. Harrison handed the chit back. "Try it now. Okay. Get to work."

**ooOoo**

Sheridan strode down the corridor in Green Sector, his heart pounding a Denebian rhumba in triple time. His fingers were clammy and his palms were sweating. He hadn't felt this nervous since the first time he'd asked a girl out on a date, and then he'd been fairly sure she liked him. From the woman who awaited him just a few doors down, he feared the opposite.

He'd never really had a mother-in-law; Liz had barely talked to her parents, and Anna's mother had died when Anna was a teenager. _She can't hate me that much_, he told himself. _She asked for this tour; that's got to mean she's cutting me some slack. Doesn't it?_

He halted outside Chenann's guest quarters, stopped by his own question. He didn't know the answer, any more than Delenn or Mayan had. Was this a genuine second chance, or simply Minbari courtesy—a determined effort to pretend all was normal in order to avoid offending him? Or perhaps to avoid offending Delenn by a too-explicit display of contempt for the boorish human she'd had the bad taste to fall in love with? He tugged his hair, then made himself let go. It was a little late for second guesses. He straightened his shoulders, plastered what he hoped was a sociable look on his face and reached for the door-chime.

Before he could touch it, the door swung open. Chenann stood on the other side, a slight figure in silver-gray silk with a lavender over-robe. The reddish-purple shade brought a faint flush to her cheeks. He bowed in his best Minbari fashion, resisting the temptation to peer past her at the inside of her room. Not that guest quarters could tell him much about her. It struck him suddenly that he had no idea what to do or say next. A simple greeting might be fraught with social peril. Should he ask how she'd slept, or if the quarters were to her liking? Would politeness make her say yes, whether it was true or not? In which case, his question could be interpreted as either fishing for compliments or forcing a Minbari to lie... His head was beginning to ache, and they hadn't even started yet.

Chenann stepped across the threshold and let the door close behind her. "Good day, Captain Sheridan. I thank you for coming."

_ It's nothing_, he thought, then checked the words before they crossed his lips. If she took him literally, he'd be sunk. "I'm honored to escort you," he said instead. "Where would you like to go first?"

She ducked her head slightly, in a gesture he recognized as the equivalent of the human arm-sweep that meant _after you_. "Where you will, please. Delenn showed me only a little. There is much to see."

"That there is." They fell into step down the corridor, while Sheridan considered their first destination. Whatever Chenann's motives in requesting his presence, this first choice would almost certainly color her view of him. He had to give her the right impression, to make up for his blunder over dinner. But how? _I barely know this woman. How do I know what she'll think about anything?_ Nervous tension clogged his throat as the lift came in sight. _I can't do this. I'll screw it up again. Aw, hell—since I'm going to be wrong anyway, I should just take her where I really want to go..._

The choice made, his fears subsided somewhat. He even managed a genuine smile as the lift doors closed behind them. "I'll take you to one of my favorite places."

The lift dropped them in a Blue Sector corridor, not far from his office. They walked past the office door and down a short section of hallway, then stepped through an arch into the station gardens. Chenann's brisk steps slowed as they moved down the path, deeper into the vegetation. The clear dome of the ceiling arched overhead, showing a velvet-dark sweep of space glittering with distant stars.

"At night they turn the lights way down," Sheridan said softly. "The stars look brighter then. Like little beacons, reminding us we're not alone out here."

Chenann's reply was equally soft. "It is not good, to be alone." She was gazing at the starscape with a wistful expression that made him wonder what had prompted the comment. A wave of loneliness broke over him, so sharp that he caught his breath. She turned at the sound, then flushed and looked down at her shoes. The lonely feeling vanished in the sudden silence, replaced by a tension he didn't understand. Chenann seemed... embarrassed. Horrendously so, as if she'd been caught naked in public. She took a step away, shifting her body to stand with her back to him. Delenn did that, he recalled, whenever she had to speak of anything she found difficult or shameful.

Remembering his talk with Mayan, he deliberately ignored Chenann's discomfort. He ambled a little further down the path, glancing once over his shoulder to make sure she was still close enough to hear him. "Here's what I really wanted to show you. The Zen garden. I come here a lot after days full of prickly dignitaries and annoying paperwork. It brings me back to myself."

Chenann followed him around the path's gentle curve and into the little alcove of greenery. As she looked around, he could almost feel the tautness flowing out of her. She walked over to the nearest tree, a gingko whose fan-shaped leaves fluttered in a light, artificial breeze. One finger brushed a leaf edge, tracing the fan's arc. Then she smiled. Suddenly her face looked so much like Delenn's that Sheridan's heart hurt. "This tree is of your world?"

"Yes. From the Asian continent. A gingko."

She tilted her head back to take in the entire plant, as if memorizing its shape and color. For a moment Sheridan had the impression of a silent conversation between tree and woman. Then Chenann bowed her head, turned away and made a slow circuit of the small garden. The little waterfall caught her attention, as did the sand-maze nearby. "For meditation?"

Sheridan nodded. "Meditation is central to Zen Buddhism—the spiritual tradition this garden comes from. I'm not sure how many people up here use it for that, but just being here is restful for most of us."

"You come here to rest?"

"Often."

"And Delenn?" Chenann asked the question with a hesitancy he hadn't yet heard from her. "She comes as well?"

Again he felt the sense of loneliness, though less sharply this time. He managed to squelch any reaction other than a small pause before answering. "She likes it here, yes. Sometimes we meet and talk, or just sit and enjoy the silence..." He trailed off, knowing he was babbling to fill the quiet. The loneliness was Chenann's; he knew that suddenly, somehow. Was she a telepath? Her title meant "gifted one"; what little material he'd unearthed last night about the Sisters of Valeria referred to them with the same phrase. Could telepathy be the gift?

Though even if she was a telepath, that didn't explain his sharing her feelings. He'd never tested as having so much as a scrap of psi; her emotions ought to be safely locked away from him inside her own skull. Unless Minbari telepaths worked differently than human ones, or she was so strong that his lack of sensitivity didn't matter. That thought sent a chunk of ice plunging to the pit of his stomach. If she was that strong, she must be reading him like a hyperspace beacon. Every worry, every insecurity, every potential misstep he'd thought he'd managed to check—she would know about them all. He'd probably been mentally shouting them at her ever since the dinner disaster. He felt himself flush from head to foot in an agony of embarrassment that felt horrifyingly close to panic.

With an effort, he turned his gaze toward the waterfall. The rushing and frothing of the miniature cataract worked its usual calming magic, and after a few moments he could think more clearly about his predicament. _Telepaths have barriers. Lyta does. She doesn't go around picking up psychic spill from everybody and his dog. I bet Chenann doesn't, either._ _Especially if she's some kind of Minbari P-12. They're so stringent about courtesy, they probably bend over backwards to keep from reading other people's minds unless they're invited._

Beside him, Chenann also kept her eyes on the water. He sensed something smoothing out, a layer of peace curling gently around the loneliness like an oyster around a pearl. The sympathy he felt, thank goodness, was his own. What was she thinking of, to hurt like that?

"Have you seen the Zocalo yet?" he asked after a lengthy pause.

She tipped her head rightward, a Minbari nod. "Earlier this morning, yes. It was most colorful."

The dry humor in her voice reminded him of Delenn. Responding on instinct, he grinned at her. "Now there's a word that certainly applies to Babylon Five."

An answering glimmer of a smile rewarded him. "Thus far, I must agree." She paused. "You have reminded me of a duty, Captain Sheridan. I must buy some small gifts for my sisters, and the Zocalo seemed... how can I say this..."

"Touristy?" At her puzzled look, he elaborated. "Catering to people who don't get around the galaxy much—and who have a lot of money to spend."

"You have said it." Definitely a note of Delenn-style dry amusement. "I mean no offense, you understand."

"None taken. So where did you have in mind?"

She stepped away from the waterfall. "Your information files mentioned a bazaar in Brown Sector. It is permitted for 'tourists'"—another flash of humor—"to go there?"

"Ummm..." His first instinct was to refuse. Brown Sector was more than a little scruffy in spots. Not exactly guaranteed to impress a future mother-in-law, and he didn't want Chenann anywhere near any kind of trouble. Only how would he explain saying no? He needed a graceful out. Fast, before she noticed him dithering.

He couldn't think of one. To save his life, he couldn't think of anything that wouldn't sound like a lame dodge. _For all I know, she chose Brown Sector on purpose, to see if I'd be willing to display a few of the station's warts. Oh, hell—why not? The Marrakech Market is an okay place, and she'll be with me the whole time. So it's not spiffed and shining, but we shouldn't run into trouble as long as we keep to the bazaar. It's not like she wants to go to Downbelow!_

"Sure, we can go there." He made himself smile as he fell into step beside her. "There's a stall that sells some of the best spices from all around the Earth Alliance, at a little over half what the shops in the Zocalo charge. And there's Bao Lin, a woodcarver. He does beautiful work. Would that be the kind of thing you're looking for?"

She glanced at him. "I will know when I see it."

_ I'm sure you will_, he thought as they left the garden. _I only wish I knew if that's good or bad_.

**ooOoo**

Bao Lin's stall was an oasis of calm in the chaos of the Marrakech Market. Through the open space all around it swirled humans and aliens of a dozen kinds, talking and shouting in a cacophony of languages: buyers haggling over prices, children begging for treats, shoppers chatting with friends chance-met in Brown Eight's bustling main corridor. Over it all wafted the scents of frying onions, falafel, and cinnamon-roasted nuts. Chenann seemed astounded by it, Sheridan thought; she turned her head so often and so quickly, trying to take in the all sights, he half-expected her to give herself whiplash. What had Delenn said… the Sisters of Valeria rarely left their chapter houses? He could guess what they must be like—quiet, gracious, ordered. Everything Babylon Five wasn't. Especially down here.

She turned to look at him, wonder on her face. He couldn't help smiling back. She looked so like Delenn, despite the full bone crest and dark eyes… but it was more than that. As much of a shock to her system as B5 must be, she seemed to be enjoying it. She had guts, he decided. He liked her for that. If only he could be sure she liked him…

"Quite a place, isn't it?" he said.

She nodded. "Like our cities during Summer Festival, multiplied a thousand times." A flash of regret dimmed the brightness in her eyes, and she looked away across the corridor.

What was that about? Best not to ask. He'd learned enough about Minbari reserve by now to know it would be graceless to pry. Instead, he gestured toward Bao Lin's. "This is one of the places I told you about. Might be restful for a few minutes." Lin's stall attracted plenty of patrons, but the sheer loveliness of his wares prompted silent contemplation from most, and hushed negotiations over price once a piece had been decided on. Lin himself, an elderly monk from Tibet, added to the calm. It radiated from him like warmth from the sun.

As they walked toward the booth, Lin handed a package to his latest customer, turned and spotted them. A smile crossed his wrinkled face. "Captain! You have brought a new friend to see me?"

"Maybe." Sheridan grinned. The monk's cheer was invigorating. Sheridan turned to Chenann, with a gesture toward the woodcarver. "Tzetai Chenann, may I introduce Bao Lin. Lin, this is Tzetai Chennan, of the Sisters of Valeria." He'd managed to get it all out, thank God. Without mispronouncing Chenann's title, either.

Lin bowed, Minbari-style, and addressed Chenann in flawless Adronado. Something about the honor of her presence, if Sheridan understood right. Chenann bowed back and then sent Sheridan a brief, sidelong glance. Appreciative, he thought. Relief washed over him. He'd made the right decision, bringing her here.

Lin gestured toward the carvings: animals, trees, boxes in several sizes and shapes elegantly decorated in geometric designs. "Look all you wish, dear lady. If you see one you like, I will tell you its story. Every carving has one."

Chenann smiled and thanked him, with a slight bow and the hand gesture Sheridan recognized as formal but friendly acceptance. She glanced around the stall, then moved toward a statuette of a leaping dolphin. "This is a sea creature?"

Lin nodded. "With an ancient and honorable lineage. Permit me to tell you about the dolphins of Earth…"

Sheridan drifted over to his own choice, a palm-sized box of honey-gold wood with a stylized tree etched into its lid. Part bonsai, part Tree of Life, it had appealed to him ever since he first saw it last week. Delenn would like it—especially the many shades of golden-brown inherent in the wood grain. She loved subtle beauties like that. He stole a glance at Chenann, who seemed captivated by the dolphin carving. _Must be a Minbari thing_—

His link chirped, breaking his train of thought. "Sheridan. Go."

"Captain?" It was hard to place the voice at first, what with the mild distortion of the link and the ambient background noise. Then, as the speaker continued, surprise took hold. "It's Garibaldi. I, umm… Look, can you come meet me? I'm at Hanrahan's. Brown Eight. I, uh… I gotta talk to you."

A glance toward Chenann gave him a moment to collect his thoughts. She was listening to Bao Lin, apparently entranced. "Listen, this isn't a good time—"

"It's important." A pause; he could hear Garibaldi breathing. "Delenn came by yesterday, and… look, we just need to talk." Another brief pause; then an edgy note, not quite anger but getting there. "Or don't you have even five minutes for me?"

"Hang on." Hanrahan's Tavern wasn't far away. He looked over at Chenann again and was startled to meet her eyes. He saw puzzlement in them, and concern.

She took a few steps toward him. "There is something… amiss?"

"You could say that." He bit his lip. It would be inexcusably rude to leave her, quite apart from security concerns. If he rushed off to meet Garibaldi now, whatever progress he'd made toward amending last night's error with Chenann would vanish like a ship through a jump gate. And he owed it to Delenn to make things right.

But Garibaldi had said Delenn came to see him. A wistful feeling welled up in him as he realized why. She was trying to patch things up between them. She'd reached out to Garibaldi, and now Garibaldi was reaching out to him. This might be his only chance to even start fixing what had gone wrong with their friendship… which also meant a lot to Delenn. And to him, if he were honest with himself.

He blew out a breath. An impossible choice, and he had to make it within the next few seconds.

Chenann, eying his link, spoke before he could. "Something important has come up?"

"Very." He didn't know how to explain, didn't want to try.

She inclined her head. "Then you must tend to it. I will stay here until you return. There is still much to see."

He thought it over. She'd be safe with Lin—and bringing her along, a total stranger as far as Garibaldi was concerned, wouldn't do much for the difficult conversation they needed to have. "Thank you." His gaze flicked toward Hanrahan's, across the way and maybe fifty yards down the corridor. "I won't be long."

He left her with what he hoped was the proper bow for a temporary farewell, and strode down the hallway toward the tavern.


	12. Chapter 12

The violet glow of the closing jump gate faded from the viewports. Angel Blue let her ship drift out of range of other traffic, while one hand danced across the lighted touchpoints of her comm system. The babble of overlapping voices and transponders thinned to a single, strong signal. "Babylon Five Control to trader vessel. Please identify yourself."

Angel cleared her throat. "_Calypso_, last stop Tabor Three, here to drop off and pick up whatever needs pickin'." Now for her bona fides. "Lancaster Jones stops by here regular, said he'd vouch for me...?"

"_Calypso_..." The answering voice paused, then resumed with a touch of coolness. "Yes. Mr. Jones mentioned you."

_ Wonder what Lank did to get up this one's butt._ Angel kept the grin out of her reply. "You want my cargo manifest so's we can do business?"

The answering "Affirmative" was stiff and formal. Angel stroked a touchpoint. A stream of particles arrowed across the ether toward a tiny portion of the station's electronic brain. "Manifest received," Control continued after a pause. "Transmitting clearance code; proceed to Bay Ten."

"Will do. Thanks." Angel shut down the comm and aimed her ship at the station's far side. Big old tin can, just like she'd heard. She couldn't imagine living on something like that. Space was meant to be traveled in ships, with stops in between for walking on real streets with a sky over you. Taking showers with water. Lank'd told her once they showered with sonics on Babylon 5. Noise taking away the day's dirt and sweat. How in the name of hell could a lot of noise make you feel clean?

Well, she wouldn't have to worry about that. Angel leaned back in her cockpit couch. After this job, she could afford to shower at ritzy hotels. Gold-plated faucets, marble tubs, the works. Assuming Mr. Psi Cop didn't hold her time lapse against her. Hell, anybody could miss an engine microfracture. And she was only a little over an hour off time. Not enough to screw anything up bad, or that Wade guy would've said. She scowled. _Looked at me like he smelled something bad. Like my ex used to. Asshole._

The docking bay was visible now, a glowing orange rectangle against the blue and gray of the station walls. Angel made a minor course correction, then sat back again as her small ship coasted forward. No docking queues these days, not with folks like her and Lank the only ones shipping out here. She didn't know and didn't care if B5 was a bunch of alien-loving traitors or not. President Clark sure as hell wasn't her friend, and most aliens she'd ever met paid as well as anybody. But Psi Corps paid better, and she went with the cred. A lifetime on Earth's cold streets had taught her that lesson.

As she maneuvered her vessel onto the landing pad, she spared a moment's thought for the creature in the cargo hold. She'd managed to avoid thinking about it for most of the trip. Now, on the brink of delivery, she couldn't help wondering what it was meant for.

She felt cold suddenly, and a fog seemed to pass before her eyes. She blinked the blurriness away and stared at the lights on her instrument panel. What had she been thinking? Landing thrusters. Right. She had to set the ship down, make a perfect landing. Nothing else mattered. Nothing at all.

**ooOoo**

Chenann listened politely as Bao Lin told the story of the turtle carving he held, but most of her attention was elsewhere. She had kept sight of Sheridan's tall, broad-shouldered figure as he moved through the crowd, but lost him when he ducked through a doorway. The sign over it glowed bright green—some word or name in an Earth language whose letters she couldn't make out from where she was, and wouldn't have been able to read even had she been standing outside the place. It didn't look like a part of the station where official business would be conducted—a command center or security post, a docking bay, even an office. What had drawn him away with such urgency, if not station business of some kind? Especially when he had not wanted to go…

_No_, she thought, reconsidering. He both hadn't and had wanted to go. Though tightly shielded for courtesy's sake, she had read his inner conflict through his body language. He had gotten a call, and shifted in a heartbeat from relative ease to sharp tension. Because of what was said, or who had said it? Or both?

It took her a moment to realize that the woodcarver had stopped speaking. He was regarding her with gentle sympathy. "I think you are not quite with me just now," he said. "Is there anything I may do?"

"No. But I thank you for asking." She made a swift decision. Sheridan's mysterious errand could be the thing she had been waiting for—the intrusion of the unexpected. His response to it, whatever it was, would show his truest self. "Would you know the name of that establishment?" she asked Bao Lin, gesturing toward the bright green sign several yards away.

"Hanrahan's Tavern," he said. "A restaurant and bar. I am told they serve excellent onion rings."

She wondered what onion rings were, but had no time to ask. Sheridan had gone for a meal? That seemed strange… and nowhere near important enough to cause the conflict she'd observed in him. No, something else must be happening here. A perfect opportunity. She bowed, thanked Bao Lin, and walked toward the restaurant.

**ooOoo**

Sheridan found Garibaldi at a booth in the back, an isolated spot he'd surely chosen in case things turned sour. Despite the angry words they'd exchanged too often of late, his heart went out to the man. Whatever had driven Garibaldi away from him since his return from Z'ha'dum, their mutual too-public shouting matches couldn't have been easy to deal with. Garibaldi was clearly taking every chance to avoid another one.

He was staring hollow-eyed into a coffee mug, as if he saw the end of the world in its depths. A second mug sat across the table. Time was, Sheridan would've have slid into the empty seat and joined his friend without a moment's thought. Now… He halted a few feet away and cleared his throat. "Michael?"

Garibaldi glanced up. His haunted expression vanished, replaced by the wary intensity Sheridan had reluctantly grown to expect. He nodded toward the empty place. "Sit. Let me pour you a cup."

"Thanks." Sheridan sat and watched as Garibaldi filled him a mug from the plastic coffeepot in the middle of the table. He didn't really want any, but it would give him something to do with his hands. He was nervous, more than he'd expected to be. _I really, really want to patch things up. If there's any chance of it, any chance at all…_ "So," he said, cradling the mug. "You wanted to talk?"

**ooOoo**

Hanrahan's was dim and close; its crowded front room smelled of smoke, cooking oil and greasy grilled meat. Chenann suppressed a sneeze and blinked as her eyes adjusted. She looked at the occupants of the small, round tables and the long counter with tall stools that ran across the front wall, but Sheridan was not among them. The clink of plates and glasses, along with the buzz of some fifty conversations, made her feel disoriented. Even through her shields, the mental noise of so many sentients in such a small space was a constant background hum, like a poorly tuned comm unit. Was she wrong, and Sheridan had not come here?

In the middle of the back wall, she spied an archway that led to another room. Through it she glimpsed more tables and chairs, apparently empty. Perhaps Sheridan had gone in there. It looked to be quieter than this room, at least. She wove her way through the diners and drinkers toward it.

**ooOoo**

"I've been thinking." Garibaldi topped off Sheridan's coffee, though he hadn't drunk more than a few sips. "My problem—it's not really with you. I mean, it is, but it isn't. It's more the company you were keeping after… well, after you came back—"

"Lorien, you mean." Sheridan swallowed. Despite the coffee, his mouth felt oddly dry. He sipped some more, wishing it were hotter. "He did save my life, you know."

"So you say." Before Sheridan could take offense, Garibaldi held up a hand. "Nah, forget that. So you _think_, I should've said. I mean, you blacked out. You jumped, and then you blacked out for awhile. And then you were in this cave, having what frankly sounds to me like a doozy of a hallucination. That's what you told us. How the hell do you know what really happened, huh? How do you know this Lorien character was on the level?"

"I…" Sheridan shook his head. He didn't know how to explain. The very thought of it made him feel exhausted. He sighed. "I'd guess 'Trust me, I just know' isn't going to cut it?"

"'Fraid not," Garibaldi said. The look in his eyes gave Sheridan pause. There was sadness in it, and… pity?

Sudden dizziness swept over him. He gripped the coffee mug as if it could stabilize him. His limbs felt like lead. Off to one side and slightly behind, he dimly registered soft footsteps and a sense of others' presence. He tried to turn and look, but his head wasn't taking his brain's orders to move. He could barely make out a few blurred shapes. Two people, maybe three…

"Michael," he croaked, as Garibaldi slowly stood.

"He's all yours," Garibaldi murmured, still with that awful pity in his eyes.

It was the last thing Sheridan saw before the darkness took him.

**ooOoo**

Sudden vertigo made Chenann halt and brace herself against the archway. The sensation was not hers, she realized with a sense of shock. It was someone else's. Nearby. Felt even through her shields. _What in Valen's name…_?

She could see Sheridan now, seated a few feet away, across from a tall, slope-shouldered human male who was nearly as bald as a Minbari. The bald man was getting up, presumably to join the three others who stood nearby. Rough men with hard faces and eyes that had never known compassion. The bald man was different. He was staring at Sheridan as he moved, and Chenann read sorrow in his face.

Sheridan slumped over the table. Reacting on instinct, Chenann made herself still and small. The hard-eyed men mustn't see her. _I am invisible. No one is here_.

Two of the men hauled Sheridan out of his seat, then held him up with one arm draped across each of their shoulders. His weight made them stagger and his feet dragged on the floor. The third man clapped the bald man on the shoulder. "Good job," he said. "You've done better for Earth today than you'll ever know."

"Yeah?" The bald man sounded angry. "Then why do I feel so goddamned lousy?"

The third man went still in a way that promised danger. "Is it a problem, Mr. Garibaldi?"

"No." Garibaldi stared at his feet. "No problem."

"Good," the man said. Then, to the others: "Take Sheridan down below."

Chenann watched as the men maneuvered Sheridan through the empty room and out a back door. Garibaldi stared after them until the door swung shut, then stalked off toward the smoky front room. Chenann shrank against the side of the archway as he passed her.

She did not know who these men were, or why Sheridan had come among them—but she knew he was in trouble. She should find station security, tell them Sheridan had been kidnapped—

_And how long will that take? Where am I to find someone who can act to save him—and while I am searching, where will they take him? What will they do to him?_

There wasn't time to do the sensible thing. Quickly and quietly, she slipped out the rear door and followed Sheridan's captors.


	13. Chapter 13

Swiftly and efficiently, the three lurkers and two regular crewmen started unloading the smuggler's ship in Docking Bay Ten. _Finally_, String thought. His back ached, and his feet were getting sore from all the schlumping around. This was it, though, and about goddamned time. He knew which piece of cargo to look for, and to make sure no one else got to it first.

There it was, right on the shelf behind a crate of Martian whisky. The one he wanted was marked "Medical Supplies—Handle With Care," and had a small black triangle on its bottom left-hand corner. He took it down, surprised at how light it was. And cold. Like it'd been packed in a freezer unit, though this rattletrap of a ship didn't have any of those, and a standard shipping crate wouldn't fit in one anyway. He hauled the crate outside, wishing he didn't have to touch it with his bare hands. It gave him the creeps, for no goddamned reason. It was just a fragging box. His mouth felt dry, and he swallowed to moisten it. He needed a to steady him down.

At the base of the ship's ramp, he looked around to make sure no one was watching, then crossed the docking bay and set the crate down on the far side of a pillar near a side entrance. The jittery feeling vanished the second he let go of the thing. _What the hell…_? he wondered, but not for long. He'd done his part. It was Harrison's problem now. He rewarded himself with a back-cracking stretch, then headed back inside the ship to finish up.

**ooOoo**

Harrison walked into the docking bay and went straight to the stacks of shipping crates. Quickly and methodically, he recorded each crate on the touchpad he carried. The docking crew and their temporary helpers didn't give him a second glance as he worked his way over to the third pillar on the left.

The marked crate was right where it should be. He checked his chronometer and swore under his breath. Fourteen-hundred already. They were running late. Not too late, he hoped, or something was sure as hell going to hit the air-recycler someplace. If anything did go wrong, though, it'd be Wade's head on the chopping block. Not his.

He glanced around. No one was watching. He opened the crate and eased the single item in it from the packing foam where it had been carefully wedged. A gray plasteel box, half as long as his arm and nearly twice as thick. Box in hand, he turned and left the bay.

**ooOoo**

Chenann crept down yet another corridor, breathing through her mouth as quietly as she could. The stench was overpowering—a miasma of chemical taint, unwashed bodies and other unpleasant organic smells she didn't care to put a name to. She had looked for the neat gray uniforms of station security personnel, but hadn't seen any since leaving Hanrahan's. And now she had lost Sheridan as well, confused between one disused cross-corridor and the next. He and his captors couldn't be far away; it hadn't been that long since her last glimpse of them. Yet this part of the station was such a maze, with every hallway a dank tunnel full of shadows, that it was hard to tell one from another. There was no help for it. She would have to reach out, and hope she could pick up enough trace of the unconscious Sheridan to pinpoint where he was. Then at least she would have something useful to tell a security guard when she found one. If she found one.

_I wanted the unexpected. The Universe has given me what I asked. _The graveyard humor helped keep her nerves at bay. She halted by a dented stanchion, closed her eyes and conjured up a memory of Sheridan's face. The smile they had shared at the bazaar, not long after they first arrived.

_Empty corridors. Small flickers of non-sentient life… a slumbering mind here, an unhinged one there_. She shied away from that contact and cast her senses farther outward.

_There._ A feeling of sunlight dimmed by clouds; a keen blade blunted, a rich voice reduced to a reedy whisper. Another hall-length ahead and two turns to the left. She could sense the men with him as well—hard and cold as glacier ice, fiercely triumphant. Something they badly wanted was almost within their grasp. Something to do with Sheridan… She narrowed her focus as she slowly moved out of her little alcove. If she reached a little further, she could find out what it was, and then—

A flicker of thought, close and hostile. She turned, but not fast enough. A fist slammed into her jaw, and the corridor vanished in white fire.

**ooOoo**

Harrison shook his aching hand as he stared down at the Minbari woman he'd slugged. _Didn't know their bones were so damned hard all over!_ He wondered who she was, not that it mattered. She wouldn't live long enough to wake up and tell him. Not a lurker, that was for damned sure. Nice clothes, clean and not shabby… and the jeweled pin at her throat would've been sold for food long ago. By her or whatever lucky bastard stole it from her.

"Nothing personal," he said as he pulled out his PPG. He pointed it toward her forehead, then stopped. She looked familiar… and not just because all Minbari looked alike to him. No, he'd seen this one somewhere. Recently. He lowered the PPG as he thought. In a docking bay, talking to someone…

Realization dawned, and he holstered his PPG. She'd been with the ambassador, the half-Minbari freak. Sheridan's alien bitch. The captain and his freak lover had met this woman, and another bonehead, probably off a passenger liner.

A grim smile crept across Harrison's face. She must be some big shot back on Minbar, or connected to the ambassador somehow. Or both.

That could make her useful. He set down the plasteel box, then bent and hoisted the Minbari woman over his shoulder. With one arm holding her in place, he picked the box up again and headed down the corridor.

**ooOoo**

Only when she realized she was reading Article Twenty, Paragraph Ten of the preliminary Gaim-Brakiri trade agreement for the fifth time, with no understanding of a single word in it, did Delenn finally admit her attention was not hers to command. She told the viewer to pause and rolled her shoulders to loosen the cramped muscles. It was no good trying to concentrate on anything. Not when she knew John was with Tzetai Chenann, showing her the station… and, hopefully, himself in a better light.

Her mind went back to the abortive conversation over tea in Chenann's quarters. She had caused her mother pain with her bluntness; the memory of it made her cheeks burn. Yet what else could she have spoken but the truth?

Restless, she went to the kitchenette for a glass of water. She poured it and then stood with it in her hand, not bothering to drink. _Whatever happens, it should not matter. I will marry John; no one can stop me. And yet—_

She couldn't articulate what she wanted, even in her private thoughts. She'd told Mayan some of it, but mere words conveyed so little of the yearning in her heart. She felt eight summers old again, caught between fear of the moment her mother must leave them and a desperate hope that some miracle might let her stay. It hadn't, of course. Chenann had gone back to the Sisters after her brief Festival visit, not to return until Delenn's sixteenth naming-day. Her coming-of-age ceremony, the last milestone that tradition permitted Chenann to share with her. It had been hopelessly awkward, both of them falling back on ritual courtesies just to get through a conversation. _As we are doing now_, she thought. _Dancing around each other, speaking in trivialities instead of what is in our hearts. _Until Delenn herself had stopped the dance, demanding a frankness neither of them was ready for. The quiet anguish in her mother's face was the last thing she had expected.

She wished Mayan were here to talk to. But Mayan had gone out for a coffee with Lyta, and to buy small gifts for friends and relatives back home. Were she herself less busy, she would join them—though upon reflection, she didn't really want to be in a noisy crowd of strangers.

She set the water glass down. She needed a walk. A quiet stroll through the Zen garden, perhaps. It was a calming place, and Delenn needed calm just now.

She told herself her need for a walk had nothing to do with the fact that it was after 1400 hours, about the time John had expected to be back in his office. Nor with the fact that his office was en route to the garden, nor his habit of going there when he needed to think. A station tour with Chenann of Valeria, even if it went well, would doubtless have left him with much to think about.

She left her quarters before she could change her mind.

**ooOoo**

Garibaldi wished he could settle. He paced across his sitting room, feeling antsier by the minute. Had the shuttle left yet, with Sheridan aboard? Wade had said they would get him to Earth on a fast ship waiting in hyperspace that would take him to a top-notch psych clinic in Geneva. The docs there were the best in the business; they'd help Sheridan get his head straight, if anyone could. He wondered how Wade's group planned to handle it when it finally grew obvious that Sheridan wasn't on B5 anymore, let alone in command. They'd never talked about that. The one time he'd asked, Wade said it wasn't his problem, in a tone meant to convey that Garibaldi shouldn't make it one. He scowled and tugged at his collar, which felt oddly tight. He shouldn't have let it go. He should've followed up, demanded answers—

The clock on the wall next to Daffy Duck read 14:30. He squinted at it. Hadn't it read 14:15 a second ago? How the hell had he lost fifteen minutes? The right side of his neck itched, like a giant mosquito had bitten him there. He scratched hard and then shoved his hands into his pockets. His fingers brushed the meditation stone. He took it out and stared at it. He'd never gotten a chance to quiz Delenn about the damned thing—and after what he'd just done to Sheridan, he might as well forget it. She'd read the guilt in his face the second she saw him.

His hand tightened around the stone. _Guilt, hell. I got nothing to feel guilty about. They're gonna help him. They said so. I did him a goddamned favor._ But he couldn't make himself believe it. He kept seeing the shock in Sheridan's eyes as the reality of Garibaldi's betrayal sank in.

He swore and stalked out of his quarters. Zack Allen was on-shift in Security. He was wary around Garibaldi these days—they all were, especially after that ISN interview—but hadn't completely shut him out. Hell, the poor sap was still hoping he'd come back to his old job, never mind that it would mean Zack's own demotion. He could sweet-talk Zack into looking up recent shuttle traffic. Get a little concrete information, some proof that the plan was proceeding. Something to quiet the nagging doubt in his gut.

So preoccupied was he with his errand, he scarcely noticed the meditation stone still clutched in his hand.

**ooOoo**

John's office was empty. Delenn bit her lip as she looked around the room. Piles of neatened paperwork on his desk and a half-full glass of water gone tepid told her nothing. Had he come back, and merely stepped out for a moment? Or was he still with Tzetai Chenann? She glanced at the chronometer on the wall. 14:35. Her stomach felt fluttery. Maybe he was elsewhere altogether. In the Zen garden, perhaps, brooding over something gone wrong.

She left the office and went to the garden, but saw no sign of John. The baseball field? She knew he went there sometimes, especially when he was troubled in mind. It soothed him somehow to hit an endless succession of small, hard, white balls with the narrow wooden bat. The ball field was some distance away. If John was, in fact, finished with the tour—or even there at all. Some pressing station business might have called him away, or he might have been buttonholed by this or that ambassador insistent on conferring with him about some issue they thought couldn't wait. Londo Mollari was particularly good at that…

With an effort, she focused her frazzled thoughts. There was a much simpler way of finding John than wandering all over the station. She left the Zen garden and headed for the nearest core shuttle stop. Station security could call him on his link. Mr. Allen, she was sure, would oblige.

**ooOoo**

Water was dripping somewhere behind her. She heard voices as well, too low to make out words, but enough to recognize the language of Earthers. Her head was pounding like a sunrise drum, and her jaw ached. So did the rest of her—a tight, cramped feeling, as though her limbs had gotten tangled and stuck together. Chenann focused on the steady _thok, thok thok_ of the water droplets until the pain ebbed enough to let her think a little. She was huddled over, she realized slowly… the curve of her back pressed against something hard, her hands placed near her feet. She tried to move an arm and stifled a gasp as something bit into her wrist. She went still, expecting the voices to cease and someone to come. No one did. Their talking must have drowned out the small sound of her indrawn breath.

She tried to reach out with her mind, to at least find out how many there were, but the pain made it hard to focus. For now, she would have to settle for more basic methods. Slowly, she opened her eyes. Her own arms lay in front of her, crossed at the wrists with a narrow band of white. Wrists and ankles. Someone had bound her, hand to foot. Bound her and tossed her on the floor, like a heap of discarded clothing. The one who had struck her? A chance thief, or one of Sheridan's kidnappers? And why had they brought her here? Wherever _here_ was…

She looked around as best she could without moving her head; she had no desire to attract attention. Grey walls, grey floor, a rust-stained round hatch a little distance away. Nothing to tell her where on the station she was. Or where Sheridan was, come to that.

The scrape of a boot against deck plates made her close her eyes again. A few more steps; then a foot prodded her back. She heard the walker move around her, then felt his boot on her ribs. A man spoke, his voice deep and harsh. "Want I should kick her awake?"

Someone else snickered. "Don't go damaging the merchandise. Not till we know what we can get for her. Leave her be."

"Sure. For now." The boot pressed hard against her ribcage; then the pressure eased as her would-be assailant settled for shoving her over. "How hard did you hit her, Harrison?" he said as he walked away. "Remind me not to go ten rounds with you anytime soon…"

She counted to twenty inside her head, then risked opening her eyes again. She was facing away from the hatch now, toward the interior of the room. She saw three men standing near a metal table, talking in hushed tones. A fourth man lay on top of the table, restrained at wrist and ankle. She recognized his profile and the flame-colored hair. Sheridan. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing. Relief shot through her. _At least I will not have to tell Delenn he is dead—_

Delenn. Her thoughts sputtered to a halt. She would not be telling Delenn, or anyone else, anything unless she could get out of here. And somehow get Sheridan out as well.

**ooOoo**

"Ambassador!" Zack Allen was walking out the door of the main security station when Delenn arrived. He gave her his usual lopsided, friendly grin. "I was just on my way to see the Captain. Something I can help you with?"

"I have been looking for Captain Sheridan as well," she said. "He was accompanying my mother on a tour of the station… I thought he would be back by now, but he was not in his office." She hesitated, one hand going to the back of her neck. "I wondered… if you might call him for me?"

He looked faintly surprised, but nodded. "Sure. No problem. I gotta find him myself anyways. We were gonna talk about revamping security procedures…" He pressed a stud on his link, then raised the link near his mouth. "Allen to Captain Sheridan."

Several seconds went by. He frowned and tried again. Delenn felt a chill in the pit of her stomach.

"Huh." He scowled at his link. "Wish these things came with a homing beacon. Maybe they're someplace he can't hear too good. Where did you say the Captain went with your mom?"

"I don't know exactly. Just on a tour." Delenn bit her lip. "They began nearly three hours ago."

"Three hours?" His frown deepened. He raised his link again. "Lou, this is Zack. Where you at?"

Lou Welch's voice came back, punctuated by background noise: conversations, the clink of glassware, a thread of music. "Zocalo. Something up?"

"You seen Captain Sheridan anywhere around? Like, say, in the past half-hour?"

"Nope." A brief pause. "He ain't here now, either, far as I can tell."

"Keep an eye out for him, would you? He might be with Ambassador Delenn's mother; she's visiting, came aboard the other day—" Zack broke off and looked at Delenn. "What's your mother's name again?"

"Chenann of Valeria."

He nodded and spoke into the link. "Chenann of Valeria. Short, about Ambassador Delenn's height, looks kinda like her but without the hair. And dark eyes. You see either of 'em, let me know. And spread the word, OK?"

Another pause; then Welch answered, low and tense. "We got trouble?"

Zack threw Delenn a worried glance. "I don't know yet."


	14. Chapter 14

_Three men_, Chenann thought. _And one more on guard outside._ She could feel them, had thinned her shields enough to let her pinpoint where they were—though she was not yet ready to take them on. _And Sheridan is unconscious. He cannot help me, or himself. _She felt a flash of panic. He was at least twice her size; she could not hope to carry him out, even after she disabled their captors. She might just manage to drag him out of this room, but to get him all the way back to anyplace safe, through who knew how many disused corridors empty of potential help, and herself uncertain of her way… She forced the panic down. _One step at a time. Free myself, then disable them, then free Sheridan… and then deal with the next challenge._

They had stripped him from the waist up. One of the men was leaning over him, swabbing his neck and right shoulder with a square, white cloth. Chenann caught the tang of something medicinal. "You done prepping him?" someone said. She recognized the speaker; he had complimented the man named Garibaldi earlier on a job well done. From his manner, she guessed he was the leader of these hard-eyed men.

"All but the stim." The man with the cloth chuckled, an ugly sound. He put the cloth down, then picked up a hypo and pressed it to Sheridan's neck just under his jaw. "Wakey, wakey, Captain!"

Sheridan gasped and shuddered awake. His outrage was a sharp spark in her consciousness, with undercurrents of confusion and fear. "Michael…" He blinked. "Who the hell are you? What do you think you're doing—"

The leader nodded toward a third man, who bent down and took something from a plasteel box. "Taking care of business." His cold smile promised pain. "Hold still now; this won't hurt a bit."

Even before she saw what the third man held, Chenann felt a chill, a pressure, a _wrongness_ in the air. It drew her gaze toward the clear cylinder in the man's grip. Something floated there, mottled grey and tentacled and… She swallowed hard against a surge of revulsion and terror. It was a thing out of nightmare—and it was aware. Not of her, mercifully, at least not yet. Of Sheridan. It was reaching toward him, mind to mind… and it was hungry.

Horror shot through her—Sheridan's as well as her own. They were lifting the thing out of its cylinder, carrying it toward him as he struggled in vain to shift away. _No more time_. She took mental hold of the restraints that bound her, traced the chains of molecules that kept them solid, then snapped them with a flicker of thought. A wall of fire next, conjured in a heartbeat and broadcast outward to snare every mind nearby. Blinding light and searing heat, sucking the breath from the lungs. She watched the leader scream in terror, holding out his arms as if he saw them afire. _Burning, blistering, melting from your bones_… The leader toppled to the floor, terrified into unconsciousness. The man who held the creature fell next; his alien burden landed on Sheridan's chest. The other man bolted for the hatch, where he too crumpled under the force of Chenann's illusion.

Sheridan cried out as well—whether because of the imagined fire or the thing that was crawling toward his neck, Chenann couldn't be certain. She banished the illusion and staggered to her feet, reaching out in mind for the molecular pattern of the shackles that kept Sheridan bound. As the metal bands shattered into bright fragments, Sheridan grabbed at the creature where it lay across his collarbone.

Chenann clutched her own throat as sudden, shocking pain stabbed through Sheridan's neck. _Like a red-hot needle, piercing deep, seeking the nearest neural pathway…_

A wave of burning cold broke over them both, and the dingy room went away.

**ooOoo**

"It's only been ten minutes," Zack Allen said gently. "Give 'em a little more time. Someone'll find 'em."

Delenn halted in her pacing across the small security station. "I'm sorry. I am making you nervous."

He waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. You get that a lot in my line of work."

She resumed her pacing, unable to settle. They had called Chenann's guest quarters, but gotten no answer. It was just past 1500 hours now; the tour should have been finished. Where was the Tzetai? And where was John? Unless she was making a mountain of a pebble, and they had parted ways amicably—and safely—some time ago. Tzetai Chenann might have gone walking in the gardens; John could have been called to C&C, or gone to his quarters, or—

Sudden, sharp terror jolted her. The room swam, and she fell against the wall. She heard Zack's voice from far away, but she wasn't in Security anymore. _She was in a dusty room, gunmetal grey, flat on her back and strapped down while a spidery monster from the depths of nightmare inched upward toward her shoulder. One slimy, mottled-grey tentacle stretched outward toward her neck—_

_Metal shattered, freeing her hands. She reacted on instinct, clawing at the monstrosity on her throat._

**ooOoo**

Sheridan's hands closed over the rubbery, greyish mass just as something sharp pierced the skin above his collarbone. The pain nearly made him lose his grip, but he hung on and pulled. The thing was tenacious; he barely had the strength to lift it off his body, let alone disengage the tentacle that had burrowed into his flesh. It burned where it touched him. Weakness washed over him, followed by a cold, dark intelligence that spoke without words. Hungry, relentless, driven to control. Reaching out to engulf him—

Then checked, abruptly. Blocked by a shimmer of gold, from which it recoiled with a hiss.

_Leave him_, the shimmer said. _He is his own. Not yours_!

The cold darkness flared. Wrapped itself around the golden light, like a python around its prey. Contracted inward, intent on overwhelming its adversary. The shimmer held steady, intensified… then wavered. Dimly, as if half-inside someone else's body, Sheridan felt himself fall to his knees. But that was impossible, he was still lying on the damned table where he'd woken up…

Sudden strength returned to his arms. He shifted one hand to grasp the base of the burrowing tentacle and pulled. For an instant, he saw and felt another pair of hands atop his own, pulling along with him. Hands with a bright diamond that sparkled on one finger…

The tentacle ripped loose. A thin, high, inhuman scream echoed through the chamber as he flung the grey thing hard away from him. It struck the wall with a wet thud and dropped to the floor, where it lay twitching.

The imagined hands vanished. Sheridan sat up, bracing himself against vertigo. When his head cleared, he saw Chenann nearby. She was huddled on her knees, breathing hard.

He slid off the table and stumbled over to her. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"I am… uninjured." She sounded weak, and her skin was paler than normal even for a Minbari. She nodded toward the creature on the floor. "We must… dispatch that, I think. It is…" She shuddered, one hand tightening on his arm. "I felt its thoughts. It was… unspeakable."

"Good word for it." He covered her hand with his own in a brief gesture of comfort, then glanced around for a weapon. Two of their captors lay out cold on the floor nearby; he pushed to his feet, staggered over and relieved the nearest man of his PPG. Then he turned, aimed and fired. The energy bolt shriveled the creature into a blackened lump.

He holstered the PPG and raised his hand, then saw the bare back of it. "My link. My shirt and jacket."

"There," Chenann said, with a nod toward a broken crate in the corner. Sheridan's clothing was draped over it. Of his link, he saw no sign.

He shrugged into his garments, then went back and gently helped Chenann up. "I don't know where we are, or how long we'll have to walk before we get someplace safe. Or if these…" The word _bastards_ came to mind, but he discarded it. "…people… left any guards around—"

"One guard," she said, with a small smile. "He became… frightened and ran away. I do not think he has stopped running yet."

"The fire. That was you. You _are_ a telepath."

"Yes." She was still breathing with effort, which worried him, but he didn't know what to do about it.

He let out a breath of his own. "Okay, then. One less problem for us to worry about." He drew her against him, one arm around her shoulders, taking her weight. "Can you walk?"

She nodded. "Well enough."

"Good. Let's get out of here."

**ooOoo**

"Ambassador!" Zack's voice, sharp with panic. He was gripping her shoulders, his face inches from hers. "Delenn! Snap out of it! Jesus—"

She managed to gasp out his name, and he backed off a little. "I am all right now." She took a deep, steadying breath. "But John… the Captain is not. I was with him. I saw him."

He looked at her as if she'd sprouted wings or turned purple. "You… saw him? Just now?"

She nodded. "In a grey room. Dirty, disused. He was… someone had restrained him. He was captive. And there was—" She broke off with a shudder. She couldn't bring herself to speak of the nightmarish creature she'd seen, the malign intent she had sensed in it toward her beloved. She had helped get it away from him in time, she thought… but what if she was wrong?

Zack was looking less shocked now, more thoughtful. "Some kind of teep thing, sounds like." He cocked his head. "I didn't know you were a telepath."

"I am not. My mother is…" As her words sank in, she stared at Zack with a fresh jolt of fear. "She was there, too. She must have been. Only that can explain—" She pushed away from the wall and grabbed his arm. "We must go. Quickly."

**ooOoo**

Garibaldi rounded the corner fast, then made himself slow down as he approached the main security station. If he burst through the door looking agitated, chest heaving like a distance runner's, Zack wouldn't give him the time of day. He needed to keep calm. _Just dropping by, asking after shuttle traffic. A client wants to know. No big deal._ He twiddled the meditation stone in his fingers to soothe his nerves, then sauntered up to the door and stepped through it when it opened. "Hey, Zack, I need a favor—"

He broke off as he got a good look around. The station was empty.

A voice crackled over the comm unit. "Zebirowski to Allen."

Garibaldi answered. "Hey, Zeb. What's up?"

"Chief?" Zeb sounded startled. "What're you… I mean, it's good to hear your voice, but—"

"Thought I'd pitch in a bit. Figured you all might need it today." _That was nice and vague_, Garibaldi thought. "Whaddaya got?"

"Nothing." If voices could scowl, Zebirowski's would have. "No sign of the Captain. Or the Minbari lady." His tone changed to curiosity. "The Ambassador's mother, huh? She some bigwig back on Minbar?"

_Delenn's mother? With Sheridan?_ The nagging doubt in his gut flared into full-blown anxiety. Something was wrong, though he didn't yet know what or where. His hand tightened around the meditation stone. The other hand went to his neck. The damned itch was back, ten times worse. He kept his voice cheerful with an effort. "If I told you that, Zeb, I'd have to kill you. Keep looking, OK?"

"Will do." The comm line went quiet.

Garibaldi paced across the room, fidgeting with the stone. Why did Zack have people looking for Sheridan? Shouldn't Wade's people have spread the word by now, on the QT to people like Zack and Susan who needed to know? And how did Delenn's mother get involved? Hell—he hadn't even known Delenn _had_ a mother, let alone that she was on B5. He stood in the middle of the floor, one thumb tracing the outline of the Minbari character etched into the meditation stone. Each curve felt calming, soothing. His frantic thoughts slowed, subsided. He liked the feeling. Funny, he could almost hear the quiet. As if it were a live thing, breathing in his ear.

Gradually, he grew aware of another sound. A man's voice. "_Calm down, Mr. Garibaldi. Don't hurt yourself. Calm down, Mr. Garibaldi…_"

His eyes snapped open. When had he closed them? His heart pounded against his ribs. He knew that voice. He'd heard it in Hanrahan's, congratulating him, about two and a half hours ago.

He swore and left Security at a dead run.


	15. Chapter 15

It was all Chenann could do to keep putting one foot in front of the other. She had no energy to spare for anything else, certainly not for clarifying her already hazy memory of how she had come to this benighted section of Babylon 5 from the relative safety of the Marrakech Market. "I am sorry," she said, and felt alarmed by how weak her voice sounded. "I do not recall this corridor. They all look so alike…"

"It's okay." Sheridan managed a smile, more for her than for himself. She could feel how worried he was, and his determination not to let her see it. She was so exhausted, her shields had no more substance than moonlight. Everything was bleeding through… Sheridan, passing lurkers, the occasional scuttling vermin, even the men they had left unconscious in the room that had been their prison. It disoriented her and sapped her waning strength.

Sheridan halted near a small alcove. "Doesn't seem to be anyone around. We could rest awhile."

"That…" Her voice died in her throat. She tried again. "That would be welcome."

He shepherded her into the alcove, settling her against him for maximum comfort as they sat. She was starting to shiver; she burrowed close to him, seeking warmth. Unspoken words echoed in her brain, tinged with unease: _first stage of shock_… Was that her thought, or his?

He shifted away from her, removed his jacket and wrapped it around her. "Gets cold down here sometimes. This'll help."

It did help, though not enough. She couldn't get warm. She wanted to sleep, and knew she mustn't. She recognized the symptoms of energy drain. The use of her Gift and the mind-battle with the creature had depleted her; if she went to sleep without replenishing herself, she might never wake up. "Would you… have anything to eat?"

Brief startlement, then regret. "No. I'm afraid not."

No food. Well then, she would talk to keep herself awake. That would let her last a little longer. "Who was the man… in the restaurant? The bald one. They called him Gari… Gari…"

"Garibaldi," Sheridan said. Four syllables, brimming with anger and confusion and sorrow.

"It was he… you went to speak to?"

"Yes."

"He is… a friend?"

He stayed silent a long time before replying. "I thought he was."

She could feel him shutting down around the subject of Garibaldi; whatever had happened to harm their friendship, he clearly did not want to discuss it. She would think of something more pleasant, then. Something to make him happy, which would also make her feel better.

Even thinking this, she did not expect what came out of her mouth. "Tell me about Delenn."

"Delenn?" Just to say her name gave him pleasure; Chenann could feel it beneath his surprise. He gave a small laugh. "There's so much I could tell you, I'm not sure where to start."

"I have not seen her for a very long time." The words brought tears to her eyes. Her self-control must be shot; she was being most indiscreet, bringing her personal anguish out in the open like this. Burdening him with it. His concern warmed her like a hearth-fire, even as she felt shamed that her need for it was so obvious. "Forgive me, Captain. I am… not able just now to… keep myself to myself…"

"Please… call me John." He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. "You look done in—and I'm sorry to have put you through this. I thought you'd be fine with Bao Lin, and I'd be gone maybe ten minutes. I didn't figure on… whatever all this is, let alone you getting caught up in it."

"I followed you," she said.

"I figured. Why?"

"To see the unexpected. From you." She gave a breathy laugh. "I certainly got what I wanted. And… now I am sorry. John. Sorry for my… subterfuge. Perhaps… this situation… is my punishment."

"Delenn does that, too," he said softly after a pause.

"Does what?"

"Takes things on herself. Even when they're not her fault. Or takes all the blame when only part of it's rightly hers." He chuckled. "I should say, she tries to. We don't let her get away with it any more than we can help."

She heard the unspoken part of his thought: _Though I do love her for it…_ A memory came then; his memory, sharp and clear. Delenn in his arms. Her warmth, her softness and her strength, the silky feel of her hair beneath his cheek. Words he had said to her then, hanging in the air: _Could I love that much, and not forgive_?

If he loved Delenn for this… for her willingness to take responsibility, to bear the burden of choice and action, as thoroughly Minbari a habit of thought as Chenann knew of… if he understood and respected this in her, even as his own honor made him wish to spare her pain… _why, then_… She shifted position to look him in the face. "You will marry her," she said.

He blinked, then laid out his next words as carefully as blown glass. "We'd planned that, yes. I know Delenn's happy you could share the occasion—"

"You misunderstand." Conviction briefly strengthened her voice. "You will marry her with my blessing. That… is what I meant. That is… why I came. To know if I should give it." She sagged against him as fatigue regained its hold. "I know now. And… I am glad. I had not expected… to be glad…"

She was feeling light-headed; not good. She needed food, and the herbal tea the Sisters always used when they overtaxed themselves. She could smell it now, almost taste it hot on her tongue. Absurd. They were huddled in a filthy corridor in the guts of Babylon 5, who knew how far away from help or safety, and she was dreaming of tea.

She heard him say her name from somewhere far away. Two syllables, over and over. _Chenann, Chenan__n_… She drifted on them toward the comforting dark. Just before she sank into it, she sensed another mind rousing to wakefulness. Dim and distant. A human mind. Familiar, though barely. Cold and hard, like a chunk of crystal in a snowbank. Cold and hard and angry. Very, very angry.

She tried to speak, to warn Sheridan, but exhaustion overtook her.

"Chenann?" Sheridan heard the panic in his voice and squelched it. She was out for the count, and she didn't look good. _What stage of shock is it when you pass out? Goddamn it, why can't I remember things like that when I need to…_ He pressed two fingers to her neck and felt a weak but steady pulse. Using her psi abilities must have exhausted her, dangerously so to judge from her symptoms. Or those bastards had drugged her, and she hadn't known it to tell him.

He had to get her to a medlab, fast. He picked her up. Luckily, she didn't weigh much. He cradled her against his chest and headed down the corridor.

**ooOoo**

Zack muttered into his link as he followed Delenn down yet another hallway. "We're in Red Six now, Lou. Yeah, she's still moving. Heading for Brown Sector. I'll keep you posted." He signed off, eyes locked on Delenn as she hurried down the corridor. He'd asked where they were going, and she'd said she didn't know. "But I will know when we get there," she'd told him, her gaze fixed on something in the distance. He wondered if there was some kind of trail in the air, some line of energy that only Minbari could see. Or that only Delenn could see. She was sure as hell following something, like a bloodhound on a scent. She moved swiftly and surely, barely shifting aside as people passed them. It was all he could do to keep up.

They crossed into Brown Six. She halted suddenly, as if she'd turned to stone. He had the strangest feeling she was listening with her whole body, as if her skin and hair and bone crest had sprouted audio sensors. "Come," she said, and darted around the corner to their left.

There were lifts that way, he remembered. Were they heading upward, or down into the station's guts? "Hey, wait up," he called as he rounded the corner after her.

The lift dropped them in Brown Eight, two corridors away from the Marrakech Market. Zack breathed a sigh of relief. If Delenn's bird-dogging had led her here, they had nothing to worry about. The Captain was fine, Chenann Whatsit was fine. _Yeah, sure they're fine. That's why there's been no sign of either of 'em for going on four hours now, and why Ambassador Delenn went all hooey in Security, grabbing at her throat._ He cursed himself for a fool and spoke into his link as he followed Delenn into the bustling throng of the marketplace. "Brown Eight now, Lou. The bazaar down there." He picked up his pace. "Heading for a place called Hanrahan's. Somehow, I don't think the Ambassador's after a drink."

"Copy that," Welch replied. "There's a couple of our guys on-station at the far end. I'll call 'em. They'll meet up with you."

"Thanks." Zack signed off and ducked after Delenn into Hanrahan's Tavern.

He caught up with her in the back room, which was devoid of patrons. "He was here," she said. She drifted toward a booth near the rear corner and frowned as she reached it. "He met Mr. Garibaldi. And then—" Abruptly, she swayed and grabbed the table for balance. "Something happened to him. He was taken ill, or—"

"Drugged," Zack said softly. He recalled her earlier description of the scruffy grey room. "And somebody took him somewhere." He laid a hand on her shoulder. "You okay?"

She swallowed. "I will be."

"All right." He looked around the booth, his gaze sweeping the seats and table and the floor nearby.

The way it had fallen, he almost missed it. Only a glint of silver stuck out between the dark wood of the booth's edge and the wall. He reached over and teased the object out, then held it up for Delenn to see. "Link. Cred to donuts, it's his. You getting any more of that… whatever you've been getting, so we can follow some more?"

"It was… a memory," she said. She sounded as bewildered as Zack felt. "It's gone now. I don't understand…" For a moment, he thought she might cry. Instead, she clenched her fists and pressed them to her face. A long breath, and then she lowered them. She looked calmer now, though Zack could read the tension in every line of her. "I am not a telepath. At least, not as your people reckon such things. But… sometimes, I can connect with—" She broke off and looked away, hands clenching and unclenching as if she wanted something to hold onto. Or someone. "I will try now. Perhaps…"

He watched her inhale, then exhale, and close her eyes. Stillness radiated from her, like water from a stone tossed into a pond. For a moment, he had the feeling the Universe itself was holding its breath.

He whispered into his link, so as not to disturb her. "Allen to Welch. Send those guys to Hanrahan's. Looks like the Captain's been snatched—and Ambassador Delenn's mother with him."

**ooOoo**

Garibaldi staggered into Hanrahan's. He felt like he'd been on a bender, even though he hadn't touched alcohol since his beer with the princess beef three days ago. All the way down here from Security, he'd been dizzy as a drunk damned near every five minutes. Was there something in the atmosphere? It was hard to breathe, and he kept having to swallow past what felt like a fish bone in his throat. Except he didn't eat fish; he was allergic to most kinds, and didn't care for the rest. At least his neck had stopped itching… though he preferred that to his present symptoms. _That's it. I'm coming down sick, probably with some weird alien version of chicken pox…_

He fought off a dizzy spell for the millionth time and headed for the back room. Wade and his crew had taken Sheridan out the rear entrance. He could follow their trail from there; if they'd left any traces, he'd spot them. He hoped. If not—

"Chief?" Zack's voice, wary. As if he knew, or suspected, what Garibaldi'd done. And Delenn? What in the name of God was she doing here?

He barely had time to form the thought when she saw him. And recoiled, as if the sight of him repulsed her.

"_Shas'takh_," she spat. It sounded like an epithet. The glare she gave him could raise welts on titanium. She took a step toward him, speaking in a torrent of Adronato. She must know, must have figured it out somehow… even though he didn't know what he'd really done himself, not anymore. Not since he'd twigged to the ugly fact that Wade lied to him, used him to get Sheridan for something that damned sure wasn't a fast shuttle to Earth for psychiatric help.

"Delenn… I can explain…" He felt dizzy again, worse than before. A lot worse. This time with a choking sensation, like the fish bone had become an entire fish skeleton lodged in his windpipe. He fell against a table. It toppled over, carrying him with it. Something small hit the floor in front of him. The meditation stone. It was glowing with a fierce white light, which died even as he saw it.

The choking got worse. He was fighting for breath, trying not to black out. He heard a rustle of silk, felt someone press the stone back into his hand. "You are Michael Garibaldi," a voice hissed in his ear. Delenn, fierce and urgent. "Say it with me. I am Michael Garibaldi—"

He couldn't get a breath. Couldn't make his mouth work. "—chl… baldi…"

"Again. Don't drop the stone. 'I am Michael Garibaldi—'"

His breath came a fraction easier. "—Michael… ribaldi…"

Something was sitting on him. Something small but heavy. He could feel it draped across his right shoulder and halfway up the side of his neck. It was trying to hold on, but its grip was slackening. _What the hell…_?

"Mr. Allen!" Delenn spoke with the snap of command. "Fire as soon as it falls!"

_Falls, my ass._ With his free hand, Garibaldi reached toward the weight on his neck. His fingers closed over a rubbery, irregular mass, with an oval-shaped slimy patch in the center. _Like a giant eyeball or something…_ He shuddered and yanked at it with all his strength. He felt it struggling weakly, felt something slide out from just above his collarbone. With a yell, he hurled it to the floor. He got only a glimpse—grey, tentacled, like a sickening cross between a spider and a squid—before Zack's PPG reduced it to char.

Suddenly he could breathe, and his head was clear. He sat back on his haunches, panting.

"Chief, you're bleeding," Zack said.

So he was. He could feel a tiny trickle wending its way down his neck to his chest. He pulled down his collar, wiped the blood off and looked at his fingers. "Not enough to worry about." He had the shakes too, but he could handle them. He could handle anything, now that _thing _was off him. "Jesus. Fucking. Christ." He blinked sweat out of his eyes, then looked up at Delenn. He felt a blush rising. "Damn. I mean… sorry, excuse my language—"

It took him a moment to realize she was smiling. "Never mind, Mr. Garibaldi. I have heard you swear before."

"You have at that." He held her gaze as his ragged breathing slowed. "What the hell did you just save me from? And how'd you know it was there?"

She held out a hand. He took it, and she helped him to his feet. "Explanations will have to wait. John is missing, and so is my mother. Do you know—"

"I know who took John." His voice was grim. He didn't want to admit it, but she deserved to know. "Because I helped. I goddamn _helped_. Sleeper in his coffee, so they could take him away. But I don't know where." He slammed his hand against a nearby chair. "I was their errand boy. They said they were going to help him, send him Earthside to get his head on straight. I believed them. They never told me what was really going on."

Zack holstered his PPG and poked the dead creature with the toe of his boot. His next words were clipped and hard. "This little nasty have anything to do with that? You helping snatch the Captain, I mean."

"Almost certainly," Delenn said. "I have read of these… creatures, though I have never before seen one. They inhabit the minds of others, manipulate them to the creatures' own advantage." She gave Garibaldi a troubled look. "Though how you came to be carrying one…"

He found himself remembering a concrete bunker. Prowling around it like a caged tiger, throat raw from screaming and mind empty of memories he knew should have been there. "I have me an idea," he said. "Though you're right, it'll have to wait. We've got the Captain to find." He glanced away from Delenn, then made himself look back at her. "I never saw your mother, though. No one was with him when he came in here. I'm sorry."

**ooOoo**

He was tiring, leg muscles getting shaky from the unexpected exertion. He felt like he'd been walking forever with Chenann's dead weight in his arms. Going in circles, probably. She was still breathing, he could feel the motion of it against his chest, but faster and more shallowly. That couldn't be good. He had to get her medical treatment. A clinic, a first-aid station. Better yet, a working comm unit so he could call a crash team to… Where were they, anyhow? Grey something, from the dirty stripe he could barely see on the walls. Brown Sector should be adjacent to them, if he could only work out which direction. And then if he could get them to a working lift…

He shifted Chenann's limp body, easing a cramp in his bicep. "I'm so sorry," he murmured, as if she were conscious to hear him. "All I wanted was to give you a nice day, make up for my stupid blunder the other night. Delenn was hoping you'd like me—and then I went and screwed it up. And now I've done it again." He sighed. "Though at least this time it wasn't my fault."

He moved one hand to check her pulse. It felt weaker than before. Sudden fear made his breath come faster, until he deliberately slowed it to normal. "You are not going to die on me, Chenann of Valeria," he said. "Delenn can forgive a lot of things, but getting her mother killed because I don't know where the hell civilization is won't be one of them. Plus, we'll never get to know each other if you're dead. And I won't get a Minbari mother-in-law. That's part of the deal, you know. A Minbari wife comes with Minbari in-laws. Right? You wouldn't take that away from me, would you?" He shifted her weight again and made himself keep walking. "So it's settled, then. You won't die on me, and I'll find us a lift. That's all we need right now. A working lift. Even if it only goes up one damned floor…"

The Universe, he thought a moment later, must listen to babbling idiots. He turned a corner and saw lift doors dead ahead. With a light over one of them that said it was coming down. Which meant it worked, glory hallelujah.

Footsteps echoed behind him, heavy and fast. Heading their way. A potentially violent denizen of Downbelow, or one of his captors awake and out for blood? Either one meant trouble. "Come on," he muttered, as the lift light winked down. "Come on…!"

The doors opened. _Thank God_, he thought, and moved toward them—then halted as a grim-faced Garibaldi stepped out, PPG pointed at his chest.


	16. Chapter 16

Wade's head throbbed with every step, but he ignored it. He was close to his quarry now, and nothing would slow him down. John J. Fucking Sheridan was a dead man, no two ways about it. And the little bonehead. They'd bested him, humiliated him. No one did that and lived to talk about it.

He didn't know what he'd tell President Clark, but in some ways a dead Sheridan was just as good as a live one. With the war hero gone, Clark could put whomever he wanted in charge up here. Same outcome, right? Better, maybe, with no critter involved. Clark's alien allies gave Wade the creeps, though he'd never have said so to the President's face. But who could trust any alien, especially when they looked like something from a bad dust trip?

He heard footsteps up ahead. Slow, heavy, faltering. Only one set. Sheridan? He was sure the man was close. He'd spotted the two of them in a crossway not long ago, Sheridan carrying the bonehead like a life-sized rag doll.

He'd know in a minute. He hurried toward the lift bay, PPG at the ready.

**ooOoo**

"Garibaldi," Sheridan said, as if the sound of Michael's name could bring him to his senses. A useless effort; he knew it as he spoke. His arms tightened around Chenann, as if he could shield her that way from the shot he knew was coming. He saw the gun move and started to turn away, presenting more of himself and less of her as a target.

Garibaldi fired… _past_ him, he realized abruptly. High and over his shoulder.

"Get down!" Garibaldi barked, and fired again. Sheridan ducked as best he could, burdened as he was. A plasma bolt singed his hair. From behind him—not from the lift, where Garibaldi was, but further down the corridor. A cry of pain split the air and a body hit the floor.

Silence fell. Sheridan counted heartbeats: _one, two, three…_

"You, ummm…" Garibaldi cleared his throat. "You okay?"

He looked up. Garibaldi was standing there, gun arm at his side, looking nervous and concerned and guilty all at once. He turned his head to look behind him. One of his captors lay crumpled on the floor. The ringleader, if he'd guessed right. The upper quarter of the dead man's chest was a blackened mess.

"Ugly thing, PPG burn," Sheridan said quietly.

"Yeah."

"There's blood on your collar."

"Yeah." Garibaldi swallowed. "Yours, too."

"I, uh…" Sheridan shuffled forward, still cradling Chenann. "I guess we each have a story to tell. As soon as we get her some help."

**ooOoo**

"Watch out for puddles," Zack said as he and Delenn moved cautiously through Grey Nine. "Sometimes it's just water. Other times it's coolant, or worse. Not anything you want to step in or get on you."

They had split into teams, each covering different portions of Brown and Grey sectors: Garibaldi, the two security guards from the nearby station, herself and Mr. Allen. Thus far, though, they weren't having much luck. Whatever impulse, telepathic or otherwise, had led her to Hanrahan's seemed to have faded. Delenn felt nothing but fear, and an occasional flicker of awareness that John, at least, was alive. If she could trust it. If those little flickers weren't simply her imagination, tricking her into believing what she wanted to be true. Of Chenann, she felt nothing—a realization so terrifying, she could scarcely acknowledge it. _Faith manages_, she thought desperately. _If John is alive, then my mother is, too. He would not let her come to harm._

"So your mom's a telepath, huh?"

"What?" So deep in anxiety was she, it took her a moment to understand the question. "Yes. A powerful one. That is part of why she went to the Sisters of Valeria."

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Must make for some interesting family gatherings. Especially around the holidays." Her puzzlement must have shown in her face; he looked abashed and shook his head. "Never mind. Just kidding around. I do that when I'm tense."

She touched his arm lightly. "We will find them. We must." The act of reassuring him helped keep her own fears at bay, at least a little.

"You got that right." His link chirped; he raised it to his lips. "Allen. Go."

Lou Welch's voice spilled into the air. "Come on back to Brown Eight, LT. We found 'em."

**ooOoo**

"I thought you were going to shoot me," Sheridan said. Behind him and Garibaldi, the medical crash team had taken custody of Chenann and was loading her onto a stretcher with swift efficiency.

Garibaldi looked at the floor. "After Hanrahan's, I can't blame you."

"Your turn, Captain." A pair of medtechs came up beside him, a slender man and a muscular woman nearly half again her colleague's size. They stood with a second stretcher at the ready.

He scowled at it. "I'm fine. I can walk."

The woman looked him up and down, her expression skeptical. "See that you do. Now. Straight to Medlab Three. You need to be checked out. No dawdling."

"Yes, ma'am." He met Garibaldi's eyes as the pair of them fell into step behind the medtechs. "Do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Find Delenn and let her know where her mother is. And tell her—" He broke off. "Never mind. I'll tell her myself when I see her."

**ooOoo**

By the time they got to Brown Eight's security station, the two guards on duty were the only ones there. "They're in Medlab Three," one guard said. "The Captain looked okay—he went under his own steam. Garibaldi, too. The Minbari lady didn't look too good. Flat out on a stretcher, with an oxygen mask—" He flushed, as if belatedly aware of Delenn's white-faced gaze. "She didn't look injured, though. I mean, there wasn't any blood or anything…"

Zack kept his thanks short and blunt. His hand brushed Delenn's shoulder. "I'll go with you. It's not far."

**ooOoo**

The first thing she saw was John, alive and whole and visibly suppressing anxiety as he underwent a medical scan. The second was Chenann, unconscious on a diagnostic bed halfway across the lab, looking small and pale and fragile. A tall, olive-skinned medic was hooking her up to an IV line, while a second man eyed various monitors with a tense expression. Delenn froze, caught between competing desires to bury herself in John's arms and run to her mother's bedside.

"You're sure there's nothing there?" John said to the doctor scanning him. "Neural pathways and all that reading like they should?"

"Everything looks normal," the doctor said. She was short and slender, with blunt-cut dark hair and Asian features. "Some traces of stim, plus fatigue and stress… not much blood loss from that neck puncture. It's so small, it probably won't even scar." The doctor set down the scanner. "And you don't remember what caused it?"

"Afraid not." He turned, caught sight of her. A smile lit his face. "Delenn."

The sound of her name broke her paralysis. She caught hold of his arms as she reached him. "You are all right? Not… nothing has harmed you?"

"Seems like not," he said, and drew her close. As the doctor moved discreetly off, he murmured in her ear, "I'll have Stephen check me out as soon as we're done here. What happened—it's a bit of a story, and a need-to-know one at that."

She met his eyes. "I saw it. I… I was with you somehow, when it..." She broke off, swallowed hard. "And there was another one. It had Mr. Garibaldi. Fortunately, Mr. Allen was able to kill it."

"Garibaldi told me," he said, with a glance at the corner of the lab where their friend stood fidgeting. Garibaldi's gaze was everywhere but at them: the ceiling, the walls, the banks of medical monitors. "It explains a lot."

"Yes." She laid her palm against his cheek, then looked toward Chenann. Her heart began to pound, and her grip tightened around him. "My mother… what happened to her?"

"I don't really know." He sounded worried, which made her heart beat harder. "Shock's part of it, or so I'd guess. She… That thing you saw. She fought it. Telepathically, I mean. It was going for me, I could feel it… reaching out, like this wall of dark and cold, and then… there was this light, this golden light. It was her, and she got in front of the dark and told it to back off… and it tried to, I don't know, snuff her out or something—and then I grabbed the thing off me and threw it against the wall, and it let her go." He paused. "And I think… they had me strapped down on a table, metal cuffs at my ankles and wrists. And they exploded. The cuffs. Just shattered. And then there was this huge, roaring fire, only it wasn't real, it was her again, and…" He let out a breath. "Listen to me. I sound crazy. But that's what happened. Is your mother a telekinetic, too? As well as a telepath?"

She nodded, unable to take her eyes from Chenann. "That is the Gift. Telepathy alone is not enough to compel the breaking of clan ties and induction into the Sisterhood. Minbari have many telepaths compared to humans, and we have never segregated them as your people do. But those whose minds can affect the physical world… they are rare, and prized. And long ago were used as weapons in our clan wars. Until Valeria." She was losing the thread of her thought, she realized. She didn't want to talk ancient Minbari history or culture now, though normally she would have reveled in the opportunity. She eased away from John, drawn like a magnet toward the woman in the diagnostic bed. She was scarcely aware of him letting her go, of her own footsteps carrying her across the floor to her mother's side.

Chenann looked impossibly frail, her skin nearly as white as the padding on which she lay. There was no oxygen mask, as the security guard had described; she was breathing on her own. That had to be a good sign. Didn't it?

She caught sight of the tall medic with light brown skin and kind eyes. "Is she… will she…?"

"She's going to be fine," he said, with a smile that chased away the chill of fear. "We've got her on a nutrient drip to build her cellular energy back up. I don't know what caused it, but I've never seen levels that low except in starvation victims. Another hour or so and she'd likely have died of heart failure. Luckily, the crash team got to her in time."

Her whispered "Thank you," was nearly soundless. As the medic nodded and moved away, Delenn sank to her knees beside the bed and took her mother's hand. It was limp but warm. Warm and alive. _She is going to be fine. She isn't going to die. He said so._

Unbidden, the childhood word for "mother" sprang to her lips. A word she hadn't spoken since her eighth summer, had thought never to speak again. "_Oma'mai…_?"

Chenann's eyelids fluttered, then opened. She smiled at Delenn and spoke in Adronado. "Little heart. I have missed you."

Her use of the pet name—_so long since I have heard it!_—brought tears. Chenann reached out and touched Delenn's cheek. "Don't cry, child. I want to see you happy at your wedding."

Her breath caught, and the tears spilled over. A laugh escaped her that was half a sob. "If you wish me not to cry…", she said, her words coming in fragments, "…this is not the way to go about it…"

"I can see that." Chenann's own eyes were wet, but the joy in them shone through. "I will simply have to get used to it, then. But I can get used to many new things. And cherish them." She stroked Delenn's cheek, then gently brushed her fingers through her daughter's hair.


	17. Chapter 17

"You were gone so long, I was beginning to worry," Mayan said, looking up from her writing materials as Delenn entered her quarters. She took in Delenn's appearance and hastily got to her feet. "I was right to worry, wasn't I? Something has happened."

"Yes. Though it is over now." Fatigue washed over Delenn. She let her friend lead her to the sofa, where Mayan sat her down and then went into the kitchenette. She heard water running in the kettle; then Mayan came back out and sat beside her.

"Now. Tell me everything."

She got through the whole story eventually, though her grip on Mayan's hands must have hurt and she had to fight for composure more than once. Somewhere in the middle of it, the kettle boiled over, but neither of them paid much attention. "And they are both all right?" Mayan said as Delenn's tale wound down.

Delenn nodded. "So far as we can tell. John is… worried about the creature, I think. It pierced him; he wants to make certain there are no lingering effects. Nothing—" she shuddered— "implanted, that might affect him in some way. Stephen Franklin is running tests." She sagged against the cushions. "I think… it would be good to have a little tea now." A chuckle escaped her, with a ragged edge. "A pity I cannot have something stronger. I need…" She shifted her weight, suddenly restless. "I think I need to get what Susan would call 'stinking drunk.' Only I can't—because alcohol will turn me homicidal and I will probably decapitate someone with my bare hands."

"We would stop you," Mayan said as she belatedly went to make the tea.

Delenn tried to match her joking tone. "Yes, and that is just the sort of thing I wish to inflict upon my friends. How many do you suppose it would take?"

"It would depend on how much you drank…" Mayan reappeared, teapot in hand and two cups hooked over her fingers. "But for now, let us start with this."

They sipped in silence. After awhile, Delenn regarded her friend over the rim of her cup with a faint sense of alarm. "You have that look. The one you get when you are plotting something." She set her cup down. "Mayan, I love you dearly, but I do not think I can take any more surprises today."

Mayan grinned. "Oh, I had no intention of surprising you. I was merely thinking before I spoke." She sipped more tea, then lowered her cup. "There is a human custom before weddings; Lyta told me of it. The 'bachelorette party'? I think you should have one."

Delenn stifled a sigh. Another responsibility to tend to, when all she wanted—since she could not have a stiff drink, or several—was to finish her tea and crawl into bed. _And find John there to hold me_… She bit her lip. "When?"

"Today. Well, tonight, I suppose." Mayan's grin widened. "I think it will solve many problems. And I even think I know a way you can safely get 'stinking drunk.'"

"Mayan—"

"Drink your tea. And don't worry. I will take care of everything."

**ooOoo**

They set the party at the end of Ivanova's shift in C&C, and agreed to meet at The Eclipse—an establishment known for good drinks, strong coffee, and a menu of luscious edibles mainly drawn from Earth's Cajun cuisine. "And they have those little fried pastries you told me about—the ones that taste like _chirnoi_," Mayan said, referring to a confection of puffed dough, ground nuts and burnt sugar much beloved in Tuzanor. "Susan and Lyta will meet us there. So now there is only one more thing for me to take care of."

Delenn likewise had one more thing to take care of… though precisely how, she was not yet sure. She only knew it needed doing, and likely the sooner, the better. She had promised Mayan she would rest, and she did… for perhaps twenty minutes after Mayan had left on her mysterious errand "for later." Then she got up, ran a comb through her hair, threw on her over-robe and left her quarters.

**ooOoo**

Garibaldi was sitting at his usual table in his favorite diner, fiddling with the handle of the mug in front of him, when a light footstep made him look up from his barely touched pastrami on rye. "Figured you might show," he said, with a sad half-smile. "I wasn't sure till a second ago whether or not I wanted you to."

Delenn pulled out a chair and sat with her customary grace. "And now?"

"I'm glad you came." His gaze flicked to his coffee cup. "Gives me a chance to apologize."

"Garibaldi—"

"No, let me do it. Before I lose my nerve." He looked at his fingers, drumming against the side of the mug, then forced himself to meet Delenn's gaze. "I almost cost you the one person who matters most to you in the whole damned universe. The guy who came back from the dead for you, he loves you that much. And you love him that much. And I know that, and I sold him out anyway. It was an ugly thing to do—and just because we know why now doesn't change that. So I'm sorry. More sorry than I can say."

"I accept your apology," she answered gravely, and stilled his restless hands by covering them with her own. "And I will accept your atonement—if you will first accept mine."

"Wh—" Confusion made him falter. "What're you talking about? What've you got to atone for?"

"For leaving you to yourself when you first returned to us. For not speaking with you then, making sure you were all right. For simply accepting what looked to be a miracle, just because we needed one so badly. And then, later, I was again too willing to accept appearances… that your path was diverging from ours, that your heart was leading you in another direction, and that we should have the grace to let you go." Her grip tightened on his fingers. "I should not have accepted that so easily. John did not, and I tried to discourage him. Had I asked, had I come to you and questioned what was happening… I might have seen that things were not as they seemed. I might have helped you before any of this came to pass."

"You didn't know," he said.

"But that is the point. I might have."

He leaned back in his chair, but kept loose hold of her hands. This was what he'd wanted to know back at Hanrahan's, when there hadn't been time to explain. "How?"

She looked thoughtful for several seconds before she spoke. "The _Shas'takh_… the creature that held you… they are servants of the Shadows. Allies, if you will. As part of my religious caste training, I learned… certain mental disciplines that enable us to sense them. Often, our impressions are foggy, confused—the creatures have ways of staying hidden—but sooner or later, their presence is felt. And if their hold is… disrupted in some way, we can see them. They lose the ability to blind the minds around them, and then we can see what has been there all along that we never noticed—because they did not wish us to."

"Jesus." He felt sick. "That thing was just sitting there, on my neck like some kind of mini-vampire squid—and nobody saw it? Because it didn't want to be seen?"

"They manipulate the mind," she said. "Those who carry them, they influence directly. They connect to major neural pathways, and through them dominate thought and feeling. Others, they influence indirectly. A form of telepathy, our scholars say—your folk tales might call it a glamour. It is very effective."

"But you can feel them."

"Yes. Sometimes. Not easily, or precisely. But enough."

He stared at their joined hands. "So are you a telepath?"

"Not by Minbari reckoning. By human standards…" She shrugged. "A minor one, I think. At best. Lyta could tell you more precisely than I can." She tilted her head. "Does it worry you?"

He took a moment to think it through. "No. If I'd known that when we first met, maybe—I didn't know you real well then, and I'm a suspicious guy. But now?" He shook his head. "We've been through too much, and I've seen how you handle it. If I can't trust you, I can't trust anybody. Even Squid Ugly couldn't change that opinion."

A touch of humor colored her voice. "Though you were appallingly rude to me the other day about the wedding invitation."

"I was trying to get you to go the hell away. Worked about as well as it usually does. How does Sheridan handle it when you get a bee in your bonnet like that?"

She looked confused. "A… small, winged insect in my…?"

"Figure of speech. Never mind." He was feeling much better than he'd expected to when the conversation started. She had a knack, he thought, for pulling people out of themselves and making them see a brighter universe around them. "Hey, speaking of that day—" He dug into his pocket and pulled out the meditation stone. "I've been meaning to ask you about this. G'Kar called it a soul-stone, said it's supposed to make you more yourself. And you… you used it to make that critter let go of me."

"I thought it would help," she said. "We use them in our training—as a centering device, or to calm a troubled mind when nothing else will do. They restore inner balance. The _Shas'takh_ was already fading in and out—I hoped the stone would separate you from it further. Enough to let Mr. Allen kill it without harming you."

He sat back, feeling slightly stunned. "So you didn't know if it would work? It was a fragging lucky guess?"

Her lips twitched, as if she were trying not to laugh. "As you say. A 'fragging lucky guess'."

Relief, plus shock at his narrow escape, made him giddy. "You really shouldn't swear," he said. "It's just wrong, coming from you."

Now she did laugh. "John tells me this, too."

"You swear around him?"

"I have done it once or twice."

"God." He chuckled. "Do I wish I'd been a fly on that wall…" Then, abruptly, he sobered. "You know, back in Hanrahan's, when you first saw me—I thought for sure you knew what I'd done and hated me for it. Figured you were cussing me out in Adronado. I wouldn't've blamed you. I'm… I mean, I'm glad as hell you don't hate me, but—I guess I'm just kind of surprised. I'd probably hate me, if it were the other way around."

Her eyes darkened then, as if at a painful memory. "Years ago, in a moment of grief and rage, I desired a terrible thing. And I very nearly made it happen." She sighed, a sharp sound full of regret. "So I should be the last to condemn someone else's error. Especially when it was not truly your fault."

It crossed his mind to ask her what error she'd made, that she was still condemning herself for—and then he realized he didn't want to know. Not beyond doubt. He caught sight of the waitress approaching them, order pad at the ready, and happily seized the distraction. "You want a coffee or something?"

"Not coffee. It makes me sleepy. Don't laugh—it does. And as I am going out later, I do not want to set myself snoozing now."

"Let me buy you something else, then." He raised an eyebrow. "You trust me?"

Her smile could have warmed space itself. "Always."

"All right, then." He ordered a small pot of strawberry green tea, honey on the side, and a pair of apple fritters. "They're amazing here. So good, they make your hair stand on end." He couldn't hold back a laugh at her startled look, the swift motion of her hand to the top of her head. It felt good to laugh again—to feel something besides anger and resentment and distrust of everyone around him. "So," he said, as he picked up a sandwich half, "what do I do for atonement?"

"Come to the wedding," she said gently. "John and I will hope to see you there."

**ooOoo**

She had left Garibaldi with the remnants of his meal, the haunted look nearly gone from his eyes. Not completely, but enough to give her hope. On her way home, she stopped by Medlab One, where her mother had been moved after her condition stabilized. Dr. Franklin had insisted on giving her his personal attention.

Chenann was asleep, but her color was better and she no longer looked quite so frail. Delenn hung in the doorway of the observation ward, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her mother's chest, and fought back an impulse to cry. _I already lost you once, so long ago—and now, to nearly lose you again before we had found each other…_

"She'll be all right," Stephen said softly. She hadn't heard him come up behind her. He laid a hand on her shoulder, then let it fall. "She's regaining her strength fast. Even managed some solid food earlier. Two bowls of hot grain cereal—her choice, I forget the name now, but apparently it's a Minbari nutritional powerhouse—"

"_Jalo_," she said. "It is a staple, especially in winter."

"Anyway, it did her a lot of good. Extreme hunger seems to be a side effect of doing all that psi stuff. At this rate of recovery, she'll be out of here sometime tomorrow. Day after at the latest."

She turned to him. "And John is… all right?" She didn't need to ask about Garibaldi. She had felt no trace of the _Shas'takh_ in him during their time in the diner. She had not felt it in John, either, when she saw him in Medlab Three… but her attention had been distracted then, to say the least.

"Clean as a whistle," Stephen said. "I ran every test I could think of and then some, and they all came up dry. If Little Ugly left any calling cards in his nervous system, I'm guessing Lorien's whammy took care of them. All John needs now is a good night's sleep."

A weight left her heart that she hadn't known was there. She nodded and glanced once more at her mother. "Tell me when she is ready to be discharged. I will come for her myself."

**ooOoo**

She left Medlab and headed toward her quarters, then halted and turned in a different direction. She wasn't quite ready to go back yet… and she had some time left before the engagement at The Eclipse.

He was in the Zen garden, as she had hoped he would be. Near the little waterfall, his attention held rapt by its never-ending dance. For a moment she stood and watched him, feasting her eyes on every line of his body. His face, aged beyond his years from all he had gone through, yet still vital and glowingly alive. He stood with the coiled grace of a mountain cat, the boundless energy in him contained for the moment, but ready to burst forth when called upon—by danger, by need, or by simple curiosity. Even the ordeals of the day couldn't dampen it. She wanted to remember him this way, in this place, where they had met so often—sometimes by chance, other times by design—and slowly learned the measure of each other. Until love found them, unlooked-for, and so all the more precious.

She stayed still for as long as she could, until the sheer need to touch him drew her forward. The sound of her steps made him turn; he smiled and held out his hands. She took them and melted into his embrace. They stood like that for a long time, breathing quietly in tandem.

"I was hoping you'd come," he said finally. "Mayan told me you'd stepped out. I wasn't sure where to go looking." He stroked her hair. "She mentioned you had plans later on… but I thought maybe you and I could have dinner first…?"

"You should rest," she murmured, one hand cupping his cheek.

"Stephen told you to say that, didn't he?"

"I confess, he did. Though that does not make it any less true."

He raised his eyebrows, with a suggestive look. "I don't suppose I could get you to rest with me?"

She blushed and glanced down, smiling. "Somehow, I do not think that would work very well."

"No, I guess not." One hand moved to trace her crest, her jawline, her lips. Some of the many pleasure spots he had found during the Shan'Fal. "So have dinner with me instead."

"Love to," she said, when she had breath enough to speak again.

**ooOoo**

The meal felt like magic time; they'd held hands across the table, and neither one of them could stop smiling. Their waiter had given them indulgent looks when he thought they wouldn't notice, but Sheridan didn't mind. He'd scarcely tasted the food, though he dimly recalled that it was good. All his attention had been on Delenn, and on the dizzying realization that in just a few more days she would finally be his wife.

He had kissed her breathless at the entrance to her quarters, interrupted briefly by the whoosh of the door opening and Mayan's startled, "Oh—" before the door closed again. They had laughed softly over it; he'd promised to rest as he bade her goodbye. "I'll see you tomorrow," he'd said. "If we can manage it, the way things always get around here." Another embrace, his hands in her hair, her lips soft beneath his. His voice was ragged when he spoke again. "In fact, I want to spend every day with you. Right up until the wedding. Preferably in private—"

He'd been surprised when she shook her head. "Not every day. Not even if we could. It is bad luck for a man to see his bride on the day before their joining."

He chuckled at that. "With us, it's the day of—up until the ceremony. All right, then." A hangdog look, mock sadness dialed as high as he could make it go. "But I'll miss you."

Her laughing, "Sleep well, John," was all he needed to send him on his way.

But not to his quarters. Not yet. There was one more thing that needed doing tonight, though he wasn't sure where to find Garibaldi—or what to say to him when he did. "Faith manages," he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips as he continued down the corridor.


	18. Chapter 18

The Eclipse was moderately crowded at 2100, which was about what Ivanova had expected. She still couldn't quite believe Mayan had suggested this. "A human-Minbari bachelorette party," she murmured to Lyta as they looked around for the two Minbari women. "This has got to be a first in the cultural-exchange department."

"Shame the guest of honor can't even have a glass of wine," Lyta said.

"See, I wondered about that too—" Ivanova broke off as Lyta nudged her.

"Here they come. Let's get a table in the back, huh?"

"You look gorgeous," Ivanova said as the two Minbari walked up. Delenn's silk robe was midnight blue, with an iridescent over-sheath that shimmered like mother-of-pearl. Mayan wore red and gold, brilliant swathes of color that brought a tawny glow to her brown eyes. She carried a small paper bag. Ivanova wondered what it was. "It's not too packed yet. We shouldn't have any trouble getting a table."

They were seated minutes later, in a shallow alcove that gave them a good view of the restaurant along with a hint of privacy. "Perfect," Lyta said as she sank into a chair. She nodded toward Mayan's bag. "What's that?"

Mayan opened it. Ivanova caught a whiff of chocolate. "The solution to a problem," Mayan said as she took out a dozen chocolate bars and set them by Delenn's elbow. "I am told this is exceptionally good. And my research leads me to believe it will safely let a Minbari get—" She frowned. "What is the phrase…'three sheets to the waves'?"

"'Three sheets to the wind', actually," Ivanova said. The evening was getting surreal already, and she didn't even have a vodka in hand.

"Ah. I knew it was something to do with sailing ships." Mayan patted the stacked chocolate. "You see, Delenn, I am looking out for you. As a heart-sister should. Go ahead—have some. I am not sure how much you will need, or how long it will take. You may as well get started, in case it takes some time."

Ivanova stared at Delenn, a grin playing around her mouth. "You want to get drunk?"

"After a day such as this one?" Delenn picked up a chocolate bar and waved it for emphasis. "I have seen what happens when humans imbibe too much. I think I want that experience, yes."

Lyta's eyes gleamed. "I hope you're sharing."

Mayan looked surprised. "Chocolate makes humans drunk as well?"

"No—but it makes us very happy. Especially the female of the species. Most especially when it's _good_ chocolate. As I can see this is."

"Well, then." Delenn tore open the wrapper on the first bar. "What is it you say? The first round is on me."

**ooOoo**

His third guess turned out to be correct; Garibaldi was in the baseball field, whacking line drives with the intensity of a man driven by demons. Sheridan had only had brief contact with the alien creature; he shuddered at the thought of how long Garibaldi had been toting one around. Had he known he was being manipulated—watched it happen as a prisoner in his own mind, powerless to do anything about it? Sheridan hoped he'd been spared that, at least. He watched Garibaldi clobber another ball, then cleared his throat. "Set me up, would you? I could use some batting practice."

Garibaldi went still for a moment, and Sheridan wondered if he was pushing this too soon. Then Garibaldi nodded and walked over to the ball machine. "Sure. Figured I'd take a break soon anyway."

The pitches came hard and fast—knuckle balls, spit balls, a blazing fastball that might have broken the bat if he'd gotten any wood on it. He managed to hit most of them, though a good share were foul tips. "Jesus, Michael. What'd you program it for?"

"Dodgers-Mars Astros, 2216 World Series. My dad had a vid of it we used to watch." Garibaldi grinned, though Sheridan could see his heart wasn't fully in it. "Tendaro Kenzo was one hell of a pitcher."

"He was that." Sheridan laid down the bat and rolled his shoulders. "So. You ready to talk yet?"

Garibaldi shrugged and looked away. "Dunno. I guess now's as good a time as any."

"Delenn mentioned she talked to you…"

"Yeah." Hands stuffed in his pockets, Garibaldi took a few aimless steps around home plate. "She helped some, God love her, but…" He started pacing back and forth across the foul line. "What keeps getting me is, okay. I had a vampire squid attached to my neck and controlling my brain. It made me do some ugly stuff. But—it seems like that damned thing didn't have to work real hard." One hand came out of his pocket, and he ran it across his scalp. "I mean, I'd have blackouts sometimes—little blank spells, where I'd end up on one side of a room I couldn't remember crossing, or holding something I didn't remember picking up, or halfway through doing something I didn't remember starting to do. Looking back on it, I figure that's when Squid Ugly took control. But those spells didn't come all that often. Most of the time, I felt like me. An angry, resentful, suspicious me, but… me." He stopped pacing, and the anguished doubt in his face made Sheridan flinch. "What if that _is_ me, huh? The real Mike Garibaldi. A nasty, suspicious bastard who'd betray a friend 'cause he's pissed off. What if all that fragging thing had to do was give me a little nudge every now and again, because I really am that guy? I mean, why else was it so goddamned _easy_?"

The final question had a raw edge Sheridan had never heard from Garibaldi before. So intense was his sympathy, it took him several seconds to come up with a response. "First off," he said finally, "you don't know it was easy. Maybe the blackouts weren't the only times Squid Ugly took control. Maybe it had control all the time, but applied extra pressure when it needed to. Like if you started to remember what happened to you while you were gone—or it needed to make you do something the real Mike Garibaldi wouldn't do for a million credits. And second…" He trailed off as he searched for words. He knew what he wanted to say, but it had to come out just right. The way Garibaldi was staring at him, like he saw his last hope fading but couldn't help reaching for it anyway, told him that.

"You _are_ a nasty, suspicious bastard," he said finally. "But that's not all you are. Not by a long shot. When we met—" He paused and took a few steps closer to his friend. "When we met, the first words out of your mouth were, 'I don't know you. I don't trust you.' And you were right. Blunt, but right. Why should you have trusted me? I hadn't earned it. And—"

"But you did," Garibaldi said. "You've earned it a hundred times over since. And I threw all that out the airlock."

"Shut up and let me finish, will you?" Sheridan said, firmly but without heat. "I had to earn your trust. That's important, Michael. And I did earn it. That's important, too. You gave me your trust—as an act of will, a conscious choice. Your default mode is to suspect everyone and everything, which is a godsend in your line of work. Why do you think I wanted you to stay on the job? I could've let you quit, brought in someone I knew. But that person wouldn't have been anywhere near as good as you are. Because—"

"Because that guy wouldn't have been a nasty, suspicious bastard," Garibaldi said.

Sheridan heard the hope in his voice, dawning but fragile, and kept on. "Exactly. And when a nasty, suspicious bastard decides to stop being that, to give someone his trust—that's pure gold, that kind of loyalty. You gave me that, Michael. You chose to. So when Ugly got its hooks in you… what's the first thing it took away? Your ability to choose. Your free will. Without that, there wasn't anybody left but the nasty, suspicious bastard."

"So he is the real me."

"No." Sheridan clapped him on the shoulder. "He's part of you. A part that's saved our butts more than once, I might add. The other part… the other part is the Mike Garibaldi who decides exactly how suspicious to be, of whom, and when and why. And when to trust instead. Together, they're the whole you. The man I'll always be proud to call my friend." He gave Garibaldi a gentle shake. "So will you knock it off now and start forgiving yourself?"

Garibaldi glanced down at his shoes. "I don't know." He looked back up at Sheridan, with a crooked smile. "I guess I can give it a shot."

**ooOoo**

"You have _got_ to try this. It's delicious." Lyta pushed her plate to the center of their table. "Go ahead. Have a piece."

Mellowed by most of one chocolate bar and halfway through the second, Delenn smiled her thanks and took a wedge of the appetizer. Two layers of extra-thin flatbread, slightly greasy against her fingertips, enclosed pale melted cheese, some kind of shredded meat and several flecks of something dark green that looked like a vegetable or seasoning. As Mayan took her own piece, Delenn nibbled at the narrow end of the wedge. The cheese was creamy and mild, the meat tangy and salty with a bare hint of sweet. The green stuff, she discovered abruptly, was sweet and hot at the same time. Very hot. The blend of flavors was exquisite. "This is marvelous. What is it?"

"Crawfish quesadillas. The Eclipse is the only place I know that makes them." Lyta offered the plate to Ivanova. "Susan?"

Susan raised a skeptical eyebrow. "No, thanks. It's _trayf_. I'll stick with my corn chowder."

Lyta grinned. "Bacon's _trayf_, and I've seen you eat that."

"That's different."

"How so?"

"I like bacon." Susan blew on her soup and ate a spoonful. "I've never liked bottom-feeders. Of any species."

"Hah. The truth will out." Lyta ate another bite of quesadilla. "You don't know what you're missing," she said around the mouthful.

"And what is _trayf_?" Mayan asked Susan. "What does it mean?"

"It's Yiddish," Susan said. "It means not kosher."

"Which means…?"

Susan snorted as she lifted her vodka and tonic. "I keep forgetting I haven't actually known you all my life. Okay, this gets complicated…"

As she launched into her explanation of kosher versus non-kosher food, Delenn looked around the restaurant. She had not felt this relaxed and happy since… she couldn't recall exactly when right now. The chocolate likely had something to do with that—her happy feeling and her somewhat hazy memory—but it didn't matter. She finished the quesadilla wedge, sipped a little fizzy lemonade to cool her mouth, then broke off another square of chocolate and placed it on her tongue. It slowly dissolved there, smooth, dark and sweet… _like John's voice_, she thought hazily. She found herself remembering a song he'd sung for her… how long ago now? A few weeks? They had been dancing to it, on a private date in his quarters… She recalled with vivid clarity the liquid notes pouring into her ear as he sang along, smooth and dark and sweet…

She didn't realize she was humming until she caught Susan's grin. "Singing already. Somebody's at least two sheets to the wind."

Lyta looked Delenn up and down. "Two and a half, I'd call it," she said, and polished off her wine. She drew in a breath and sang softly herself, in a delicate alto. "'I'm getting married in the morning…'"

"No, she's not." Susan waved her soup spoon. "It's another few days at least." She turned toward Delenn. "Unless there's something you're not telling me?"

"No." Delenn giggled. "Though I wish I _were_ getting married in the morning…"

Susan grinned wider. "I'll bet you do. I'll bet John does, too." She scowled abruptly. "If there were any justice in the galaxy, all the crap we've been dealing with would just stop for a week so the pair of you could spend it together. In bed."

"That is a lot of sleep," Mayan said innocently.

Delenn giggled again. "We would not be sleeping."

Susan raised her glass and leaned back in her chair. "You know, you're cute when you're tipsy."

"Excuse me, Susan Ivanova." Delenn drew herself up, then spoiled her attempt at mock dignity with yet another giggle. "I am the Minbari ambassador. Ambassadors are not cute."

"John would beg to differ." Susan glanced sideways at Lyta. "Look at her. I say his name and she goes all gooey."

"That's so sweet."

"And now you're going gooey on me. Am I the only hard-nosed cynic at this table?"

Lyta wadded up a napkin and threw it at her. "You. You're the one wishing them a weeklong honeymoon. You're a romantic, Susan. Admit it."

She sighed. "Damn it. Caught out again. A reluctant one, but… okay, yeah."

"Why reluctant?" Mayan said, nibbling on a piece of chocolate.

"Ah, you know." Susan sipped her drink. "Relationships gone wrong. That happens to me a lot." She snickered suddenly. "You know who once came to me for romantic advice? Vir Cotto. Can you imagine?" She leaned across the table and lowered her voice. "He told me Centauri men have six."

Delenn blinked. "Six what?"

"You know. Six." She nodded toward her own lap. "Down there."

"Guy parts," Lyta said helpfully.

"Ohhhhh." Delenn ate another chocolate square, then smiled dreamily. "I find I am quite satisfied with only one…"

Susan eyed Mayan. "Definitely three sheets. We'd better cut her off soon."

Lyta grabbed the next chocolate bar from the stack. "'Seventy percent cacao,'" she read. "The last one was sixty percent, wasn't it? Does this stuff get you drunker if there's more cacao in it?"

Delenn took the bar back and tore the wrapper open. "Let's find out."

**ooOoo**

Something over an hour later, Delenn was singing as they ambled through the last few corridors toward home—a mix of Minbari love songs and melodies from Earth that Mayan didn't recognize. The latter tended toward the slow and wistful, with a definite seductive undertone. "Jazz standards," Ivanova said as she helped them along, en route to her own quarters in Blue Sector. She'd mentioned a few of the titles, which Mayan had committed to memory with every intention of looking them up in the morning. Much, much later in the morning. After the chocolate wore off.

Even drunk, Delenn had a lovely voice—bell-clear and sparkling, like sunlight on water. Mayan had missed hearing it, missed even more the pleasure of blending it with her own. Susan joined in on a couple of the jazz songs, pleasantly surprising Mayan with a rich, smoky alto. "I would love a chance to sing with you before I return to Minbar," Mayan said as they reached Delenn's quarters. "The three of us would be even better. You can teach me some of those jazz songs, and Delenn and I can teach you a Minbari song or two. If you would like?"

Susan's smile lit up her face. "I'd love it. Call me tomorrow." A glance at Delenn. "After you've both recovered."

Delenn's song broke off. "What? Did someone call for me?"

"No, _shonamai_," Mayan said. "We're home now." She watched Susan punch in the lock code, brow furrowed in tipsy concentration. The door wheezed open. "In you get. Time for bed."

"But I've no one to share it with," Delenn said, looking mournful as they maneuvered her inside.

"You have me," Mayan said.

She pouted. "You and I only sleep. It is not the same."

"Patience. In a few more days, you will have a bed-mate more to your liking."

Delenn was swaying on her feet. Carefully, mindful of their own degrees of impairment, Mayan and Susan walked her to the sofa. "I recommend a hot shower," Susan said as they settled Delenn against the cushions. "Though you might have to prop her up."

Mayan frowned, worried. "This is normal when humans get drunk?"

"Oh, yeah. Get her through the shower, put her to bed and let her sleep. And make sure she eats when she wakes up. She might have a bit of a hangover… headache, touchy stomach, sensitivity to sound or light… but it shouldn't be too bad. The touchy stomach, if she gets it, will go away as soon as she has food. If you have any questions, call me." Susan yawned suddenly, hugely. "And now _I'm_ going to sleep it off. I have work in the morning." She patted Delenn's shoulder. "Goodnight, honey. Get your rest. You're going to need it."


	19. Chapter 19

Someone was using her head to drum the sunrise awake. "Stop it," she muttered in Adronado, burrowing deeper into the bedclothes. "It's not summer solstice. Let me sleep." She bumped against a warm body and dug herself partway out of the covers to see who it was. Curved back in light blue silk, pale bone crest with a familiar pattern of whorls. Mayan. Of course. Who else had she been expecting?

The nighttime lights, dim as they were, made her headache worse. She closed her eyes and pulled the covers up to the tip of her crest. She was just beginning to relax when the door chime rang. The impossibly loud sound re-ignited the pounding in her skull. "Go away," she groaned. "It's the middle of the night…"

The chime rang again. Beside her, Mayan stirred and sat up. At the third ring, Mayan slipped out of bed. "I will see to it."

Delenn lay back, half-dozing as she heard Mayan leave the bedroom and cross the sitting-room floor. The door opened; there was a murmur of voices, low and urgent. Mayan and Lennier…

She sat bolt upright, then winced as a wave of pain crashed through her head. Lennier. _Not_ the middle of the night. Oh Valen, she had at least three important meetings today that she'd forgotten all about until she heard his voice. Had she slept through any of them? How late was it, anyway?

She scrambled out of bed and braced herself against the wall as her stomach lurched. Why did she feel so awful? She was coming down ill. She must be. She would tell Lennier and have him cancel all her appointments—

The bedroom doors opened. Mayan came in, swift concern in her eyes as she saw Delenn. "I will make you some r'fani tea for your headache. And you should have a little breakfast. Lennier tells me you have a meeting with the Gaim-Brakiri Working Group in forty minutes."

The mention of food made her faint. "No breakfast. I… I will get dressed and perhaps have a little tea." She pushed herself away from the wall and stumbled toward the closet, where she caught herself on the door handle.

"Susan said you should eat. It will make the strange feeling in your stomach go away."

"Susan?" Delenn felt puzzled. "Why would Susan…" Her confused thoughts ground to a halt as dim memories from the previous night filtered through. The Eclipse. Crawfish quesadillas. Herself, giggling and singing. Susan singing with her… a jazz song from Earth, _Skylark_. The scent of chocolate. Far too much chocolate. "I got drunk last night."

"Yes."

"On chocolate bars."

"Yes. Three and a half of them." Mayan was clearly trying hard not to laugh as she walked to the closet and took out a fresh robe. "Rose is good today. It will put color in your cheeks. I will go make tea."

**ooOoo**

A short while later, Delenn wavered into the sitting-room. A pot of tea and a plate of flatbread sat on the counter between sitting-room and kitchen; Lennier was perched on a stool by the counter, having some of each. At the sight of her, he set down his teacup and stood. "Good morning, Delenn. I believe there is still nearly half an hour for breakfast before we must leave for the meeting." As she drew closer, she could see he was trying not to stare. "Forgive me, but… are you not well?"

"I will manage. Mayan and I were… out late last night." She didn't want to go into detail; she had a feeling it might scandalize him. Carefully, she hitched herself onto an empty stool. Mayan poured her some tea, and she sipped it gratefully.

"Now eat something," Mayan said.

She protested feebly, but Mayan would have none of it. Finally, just to quiet her, Delenn took a piece of flatbread. She tore off a bit for Valen and then nibbled on a corner. "I am not sure this helping much. It seems very bright in here…"

"Try this, then." Mayan fetched a portable mug with a lid from the back counter, the kind of mug sold by take-out coffee shops. "While you were dressing, I spoke with Susan about how you were feeling. She recommended this, if nothing else worked."

"What is it?" Delenn picked up the mug. The scent of chocolate rose from it, and she hastily set it back down. "Oh, no. Not more of that. After last night, I may never eat chocolate again."

"In moderation, there is absolutely nothing wrong with chocolate." Mayan nudged the mug closer to her. "Try it. Susan said it would help—and she has had some experience with this sort of thing."

Reluctantly, Delenn lifted the mug and took a sip. Then another, and another. It was sweeter than the bars she had eaten last night, and mixed with milk. "It… seems all right," she said, and drank a little more. The milk helped settle her rebellious innards. Her headache receded a bit, and the flatbread looked more appetizing than it had a minute ago. "What is it called?"

"Hot chocolate. Susan said something about dog hair when she spoke of it, but it did not make much sense to me." She frowned in puzzlement. "I also do not understand why she was laughing when she said it…"

The Babcom unit flickered to life; Stephen Franklin's face appeared on the screen. "Morning, Delenn. You wanted to know when your mother was ready for discharge?" He smiled. "Good news—any time you like. How soon can you get here?"

"I, um…" Caught by surprise, she floundered. "I will come once I have finished breakfast."

"Great. I'll tell her." The screen went dark.

Delenn looked helplessly at Mayan and Lennier. "I wanted to go for Chenann myself. But we are meeting in, what—ten minutes? And I am in no shape…" Her hands tightened around the mug. "I suppose I can be a little late for the trade-agreement meeting… if you will explain the circumstances, Lennier—"

"I will go," Mayan said. "As her travel companion, it is my responsibility anyway."

Relief warred with renewed worry. "I hope she will not feel slighted…"

"When your trade meeting is over, you can lavish attention on her." Mayan eyed her critically. "And by that time, perhaps your chocolate hangover will have worn off."

"I will get the necessary documents," Lennier said, and left the room.

He returned five minutes later with a thick folder tucked under his arm, and bowed to Delenn. "If you are ready now, we should go."

She nodded and followed him to the door. "'Chocolate hangover'?" he murmured as they stepped out into the hallway.

"A long story. Perhaps I will tell you one day."

**ooOoo**

The next few days flew by in an endless parade of Council sessions, discussions with representatives of various non-aligned worlds, administrative meetings and a mostly futile attempt to get ahead on the ever-present paperwork. Sheridan's time with Delenn, such as it was, consisted of moments grabbed from the whirl: quarter-hours snatched in the Zen garden, private messages texted during particularly dull spots in Council meetings, hasty excuses to walk together for a corridor-length or two en route from one pressing engagement to another. In the back of his mind, always, was the problem of Earth. For now, the situation with Clark was an uneasy stalemate. What would happen when that changed?

He said as much to Delenn two days before the wedding, on an evening when for once they'd both managed a free dinner hour. Chenann had tactfully announced her preference for some quiet time in meditation, and Mayan was engaged in joyful combat with the final draft of their wedding song. Now Delenn was in his quarters, finishing a plate of pad thai and listening as he poured out his worries. He hadn't intended to—he'd wanted this evening to be a break for both of them—but he couldn't force his anxiety from his mind. "Things are heating up back on Earth," he said, twining noodles around his chopsticks and then un-twining them. "Clark'll move against us sooner or later. He has to. We're costing him face up here; every person on this station is a living, breathing rebuke to his fantasy Earth Alliance where no one dissents except troublemakers and all problems have been solved. I just don't understand why he hasn't done it yet."

"But you have some guesses," Delenn said softly. "And you do not like them."

"Not one bit." He pushed a few crushed peanuts around his plate. "It's possible he's just a coward. It may have been fifteen years since the Battle of the Line, but there are plenty in EarthForce who haven't forgotten what it was like to tangle with Minbari war cruisers—let alone the White Stars, and ships from a dozen other alien worlds backing us up. Maybe all that's just too big a challenge for Clark to swallow. Or for his commanders to swallow." He sighed. "Or this is a psy-ops game; he can move against us anytime, but he's stringing it out to give us the jitters. Get us jumping at our own shadows before he sends in an armada. Which puts him in control of what we do. I hate that."

She set down her chopsticks and took his hand across the table. Her touch soothed him, as always, though it couldn't make his worries go away. They shared a smile; then a shadow crossed her face. "There is another possibility," she said slowly. "Though I do not like to add to your burdens—"

He shrugged, with an attempt at lightness he knew he hadn't carried off. "Might as well. My not knowing won't make things any easier. What were you going to say?"

"I have been thinking." She reached for her water glass and turned it slowly, her attention apparently on the play of light across its smooth surface. "The _Shas'takh_—the creature Garibaldi carried, and that your kidnappers tried to implant in you—they exist in symbiosis with another race. We know them as the Drakh. Neither are elder races, but together they are quite powerful. And dangerous. For centuries, they were allies of the Shadows. In the service of their masters, they brought destruction wherever they went. They would conquer a world, bleed it dry and then move on, leaving behind a dead husk of a planet. All in the service of 'strengthening' those races lucky enough to fight them off."

"But the Shadows are gone."

"And their allies remain." Her look was troubled. "You were among those—humans were among those—who banished the Shadows. Without them, the Drakh have lost their protectors. They are powerful, yes, but they can no longer call upon the added strength of their masters. They will almost certainly want revenge."

He frowned. "So how do the—what did you call them, _Shas'takh_?—and Clark fit into this?"

"We know the Shadows took Garibaldi," she said. "While you were—" her voice faltered,"—while you were on Z'ha'dum. He was missing for two weeks. No one knows what happened to him, or whose hands he was in during that time. Even he does not remember yet."

Now it was his turn to take her hand in comfort. She gave him a small smile and continued. "I have been asking myself how he came to be carrying a _Shas'takh_. Where he could have crossed paths with anyone who might have implanted it. Then I recalled your suspicions that the Shadows had infiltrated the Psi Corps, and Earth's own government as well…"

"And you're thinking maybe the Drakh did too," he said. "Along with their ugly little friends."

"Yes." She moved her other hand to cover his. "And where Shadow allies have shared one thing, they may have shared others. Ships' technology, for instance."

He stared at her as the frightening possibilities sank in. "You think Clark could be holding off because he isn't ready yet? Because he's building ships with Shadow technology, and they're not done—or not enough of them are?"

"It took us time to build the White Star fleet. Who is to say your Clark is not doing the same?"

"Not _my_ Clark," he said with feeling. Then: "How do we find out about something like that? Where do we even start?"

She straightened her shoulders, unconsciously adopting a posture of command. "I will tell the Rangers to be alert for information. We will see what they bring us. Beyond that…" She bit her lip. "I do not know."

**ooOoo**

Much later, Sheridan woke from a dream that had left him with a smile on his lips and a pleasant ache in his groin. He rolled over and glanced at the other side of his mattress. "Day after tomorrow," he murmured, smoothing a hand down the empty sheets as if touching the woman he knew would soon claim her place there. His worries of the evening before hadn't vanished, but just at this moment they seemed unimportant compared with what the next forty-eight hours would bring. He lay back again with a happy sigh, losing himself in sensuous daydreams. Delenn, he recalled, would spend the day in seclusion and meditation. He felt a brief pang of disappointment at the thought of not seeing her, but reminded himself that starting tomorrow, he would see her always. Every morning, and every night…

Even the drone of the Babcom unit, reciting his daily list of appointments, couldn't keep the delighted grin off his face.

**ooOoo**

Morning meditation was impossible. Her mind was full of John—the warmth of his voice, the light in his eyes last night when she'd turned up at his door. The kisses they had shared before she reluctantly left, knowing she had to finish the last details on the trade-agreement draft before she went to sleep. Today—the day before her wedding—was not for diplomacy or politics. It was for him, and for her own contemplation of the enormous change in her life she was about to make.

And for rehearsal, she reminded herself. Mayan had left a rolled-up copy of the wedding song on her pillow, where it would be the first thing she saw when she woke. It was a lovely thing, full of yearning and joy. _As love is_, she thought. Longing made her heart skip a beat. Her hands, open and laid across her knees for meditation, closed tight over empty air. She wanted to be holding John, wanted it so fiercely that for a moment it was hard to breathe. She willed her hands to relax, her lungs to take in a slow, calming breath. _I will be with him soon. His life-mate. His wife. For every moment of the next twenty years._

Her eyes stung, and she fought back tears. She would not, _would not_ spoil this day—or any day—by grudging the passing of what time they had. It was precious, and she would treasure it. Calm returned gradually, and then more than calm. A spreading glow from within, a lightness of spirit that made her feel as if no sorrow could truly touch her again. The candle flame in front of her seemed to grow, to brighten the room around her. She let the feeling carry her, like a leaf caught in an eddy, toward the person whose source it was.

She could see him now, lying on his back in bed, the tangled covers pushed down to his waist. He was half-naked, and she felt suddenly dizzy with lust. His eyes were closed, and he was smiling. He was thinking of her as he drowsed, just as she was thinking of him. _Oh John, my heart… it will not be long now…_

She let herself drift away from him, back into awareness of her own body. The cushion beneath her was soft as spring air; the delicate scent of melting wax tickled her nostrils. She was vividly alive to every sensation, including the heat of desire deep within… and a rumbling in her stomach that told her she hungered for food as well.

She brought herself slowly up out of deep meditation, banking her inner fires for later, and reached the final stage just as her door whispered open. Mayan. And another.

She opened her eyes, blew out the candle, and turned to them with a shyly affectionate smile. "_Oma'mai_. I am glad you are recovered enough to join us."

**ooOoo**

They had laughed a good deal over breakfast—or rather, Delenn and Mayan had laughed, while Chenann watched them benevolently. The habit of reserve was too ingrained to wholly set aside, but she felt happy nonetheless. Happier than she remembered feeling in… oh, too long a time to count. It was sheer joy to be in her daughter's presence with no constraint between them. To see the lovely woman her little girl had become… still joyful, even with her lightness of heart tempered by growth and experience. To hear again the laughter she had missed for so long, and feel her divided heart at last beginning to mend. The connection forged through fear of loss had led them here—and as far as Chenann was concerned, nothing would break it ever again.

Now, having eaten and chanted prayers together, Chenann found herself on her own. Mayan had offered to keep her company, but she had politely declined. It was not Mayan whose continued presence she wanted. Tradition dictated a solitary meditation ritual for the bride, in which to lay aside her former life—and Chenann, though glad for some solitude of her own in which to process the events of the past several days, found herself unable to leave Delenn behind. She recalled the Zen garden—a favorite spot of Delenn's, Sheridan had said. She would go there, and be with her daughter in spirit at least.

Someone was there already, she realized as she drew near. A man, singing, his voice soft but resonant. The tune told her who it was before she stepped through the archway and saw him, walking up and down with a sheet of music in his hands. She had heard Delenn run through her half of this piece earlier; now she was hearing the rest. It dawned on her that she had never heard a human sing, hadn't even known they _did_ sing. _But of course they must,_ she thought, and wanted to laugh at her own foolishness. _They look much like us. They speak like us. They have vocal chords, and write poetry. Of course they make music. Why wouldn't they?_

She waited for the last smooth, deep note to die away before she spoke. "It goes well," she said.

He turned toward her, surprise giving way to a welcoming smile as he made an awkward triangle of his hands and bowed. "Tzetai Chenann. It's good to see you up and about."

"Just Chenann," she said, returning the bow. "You are my daughter's chosen—and as you have saved my life, the formality of a title seems…" She paused for thought. "Misplaced." His smile broadened; she tilted her head at him, with an answering smile of her own. "What amuses you?"

"Your precision with words—you remind me of Delenn." He kept talking as he rolled up the sheet music. "The two of you are a lot alike in some ways, even though—" He broke off and looked down. She read embarrassment in him, and caution. He had transgressed, or so he thought, and was unsure how to apologize.

She glanced away, at the tumbling current of the little waterfall. She had not intended to speak of this… but as Delenn's beloved and the man who would be her own son, in heart if not in name, perhaps he deserved to know. "You are wondering how I ever could have left her."

He half-turned toward her. "The thought crossed my mind. Your tradition isn't mine, so I'm reluctant to judge."

He spoke from truth as well as kindness, she realized. That decided her. "It was the hardest thing I have ever done," she said, eyes still on the falling water. "I left half of myself with Delenn and her father. For a long time—" her voice faltered, but the soothing sound of the waterfall calmed her enough to continue. "For a long time, I did not even acknowledge what was happening to me. What it required. Until it became too real to hide from."

He walked slowly over and sat on the bench nearby, leaving her space to sit should she desire it. She felt his gaze on her, and knew that if she turned to look, she would see compassion in his face. She understood suddenly what drew Delenn to this man—the kindness in him, and the openness of soul that let him share it with anyone in need. To that kindness she could say anything, no matter how difficult, and fear no censure.

"My situation was… unusual," she said. "Those among us who can shape the physical world—they are quite rare, always female, and always among our strongest telepaths as well. Such talents manifest early, almost always before a girl reaches her tenth naming-day. Many show signs of the Gift well before that, by five or so. Such children are tested, and given rudimentary training in their homes for up to half a cycle to prepare them. Then they are brought to a chapter house, where their training begins in earnest. It is a hard thing, learning to control the powers of the mind—especially when they are so strong." A leaf fluttered into the waterfall from a creeping vine nearby; Chenann watched it spin and plunge in the current. "Most of the Gifted grow up in the chapter house; the Sisters are their family, caring for them, teaching them, helping them understand their gifts and their place. Sometimes it is painful, but there is always someone to listen. And then… well, then there are the exceptions."

"Like you."

"Like me." She bent and plucked the leaf from the pool at the waterfall's base, then straightened and spun it in her fingers. "My talents were latent. They did not manifest until after I had married, and Ravenn and I conceived our first child."

"Delenn," he said, soft as a breath of air.

She nodded. "I thought nothing of it when I began to sense her unformed thoughts in the womb. This happens with Minbari women; we expect it. For most, the bond fades gradually between the child's birth and its first naming-day. Sometimes it lasts until the second." She gave a sharp sigh. "In my case, it did not fade. It grew stronger. Delenn was near the end of her third cycle of seasons, and I could still hear her thoughts. I felt everything she felt, unless I made an effort to block it out.

"I said nothing to Ravenn. Nothing to the healers. Even then, I suspected what it might mean, and I did not want it to be true. I did not want to pay the price I would have to pay if it was. And then—" She crushed the leaf, fingernails digging into her palm. "Delenn was outside, playing in the snow. A winter thaw day—she had been fractious from being cooped up indoors, and so I took her out to give us both a little peace. She wandered away from me, chasing a wild gok, and…" Her heart constricted as the memory took hold. "I heard a rumble from above, though the sky was clear. I looked up… our house was near the bottom of a hillside… and I saw a boulder rolling down. It must have been frozen in place at the summit, and the thaw had melted enough of the ice to send it plunging. Delenn had run straight into its path."

Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "I could not reach her in time, could not even call out to warn her. I—to this day, I cannot clearly remember how I did this. I… willed the boulder to stop. And it did." A small headshake, a motion she was barely aware of making. "Halfway down the slope, it hung. I could feel its weight in my mind, as if I were standing under it with my back braced against it. I felt the strain of holding it back. Even though I knew I was standing by my own back door, knee-deep in snow, watching my daughter play. Not halfway up the hillside, holding back an enormous boulder from crushing her." A deep, slow breath. "I called Delenn's name. She looked at me and then saw the boulder. She ran back toward me, to safety. As soon as she reached me, I let go. The boulder crashed down and left a crater in the snow. I picked Delenn up—I felt so weak and shaky, I could hardly carry her—and we went inside.

"I did not tell Ravenn when he came home from the temple library later. I was trying very hard to pretend it had not happened. We ate our evening meal, and he took Delenn off to tell her stories before bed. I heard them laughing together—" She opened her hands, and the crumpled leaf fluttered to the deck. "I cried out then, as if a blade had cut to my heart. Because I knew my pretense was exactly that. I could not lie to myself any longer. Not even for my husband and child.

"Ravenn came then. He took my hands… I told him, as I knew I had to. He went… very quiet." Her voice was hoarse with emotion; she noted this with an odd sense of detachment, as if it belonged to someone else. "And in that silence, I heard Delenn speak. _Oma'mai_… dear mother… what is wrong. She asked me this. A child of three naming-days, with a stuffed gok held tight in her arms and worry in her eyes. No child so young should have had such a look. I could not bear it. I called her to me, and the three of us held each other for a very long time."

Somehow, she had ended up next to him on the bench. So caught up in her story, she didn't recall sitting down. His hand covered hers as he spoke. "So you had to go away."

"I had to go away." Her gaze fastened on the tip of her shoe where it peeked out from beneath her hem. "They gave me until the end of summer, to prepare Delenn for the change. Still… it was hard. Very hard." After a moment, she lifted her head and looked at him. "Do you want children, John? You and Delenn?"

He looked startled. "I—we haven't talked about it yet. I haven't really thought about it. I don't even know if we can." He thought of the timeflash he'd had awhile back-Delenn in a prison cell on Centauri Prime, telling him their son was safe-but decided not to mention it. He wasn't even sure it would come true.

"You should talk about it." She turned her hand upward and briefly clasped his. "I do not know if she is like me, or if her change will have affected any latent talents she may bear. But the two of you should speak of it. Before."

He nodded slowly, and spoke with quiet conviction. "I promise you this. Whatever our future holds, I will be there for Delenn. No matter what, for as long as I can."


	20. Chapter 20

The eyes that met hers when she woke were the wrong color. Bright with affection, but light brown. Delenn felt a moment's sleepy confusion. _Shouldn't they be hazel…?_

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Mayan said from beside her. "Time to get up. In six more hours, you will be a bride."

**ooOoo**

She drank the tea Mayan brewed for her and ate the ceremonial piece of redfruit, all in a happy daze. Her mother had come to share the morning meal and meditate with them, and now she was brushing out Delenn's hair. "I think I am enjoying this as much as you are," Chenann said with a smile. "I could envy humans their hair—it is so soft. So beautiful."

She laughed at that. "Ask Susan what happens if it is not regularly washed and brushed. I had such trouble with it after I first emerged from the Chrysalis; I had no idea washing it was even necessary, let alone how to accomplish such a thing. Within days, it turned dry as winter grass and got tangled full of knots. I was frantic until Susan rescued me."

"I never thought—" Chenann set down the brush and took Delenn's hands. "I never thought I would be with you on this day. Taking a mother's place before your wedding. I—" She gave a small laugh; her eyes were very bright. "There are no words…"

Delenn leaned forward so their foreheads touched. Tenderness washed over her, and she felt Chenann's loving presence in her mind. A mental caress that brought up a sense-memory: the scent of her mother's skin, the delicate perfume Chenann had always worn. She had not consciously recalled it until this moment, had not realized how much she missed it. She shaped her thought into words—_I love you_—and reveled in her mother's answering smile.

**ooOoo**

Susan and Lyta had fixed her hair and made up her face while Mayan and Chenann helped her dress. Then Mayan left, to take up her role as co-officiant of the ceremony. They had picked up Lennier on the way, looking solemn in his finery. Now, as they neared the observation deck, Delenn felt as if she were floating. Her stomach fluttered, and the heat in her cheeks told her she was flushed with excitement. Just one more corridor to walk down, and then she would see him. John Sheridan… no longer only her ally, her friend, her lover, but her life-mate. _Mine, for as long as we have._ Even the knowledge of their limited time could not dampen her joy. Not on this day of all days.

They turned the corner. Delenn was scarcely aware of the Rangers lining each side of the hallway, of David and Garibaldi flanking John at the far end by the open door to the observation deck. She had eyes only for John, resplendent in black and silver-gray, his gaze locked with hers and a loving smile on his face.

Soft chanting rose around her as she closed the distance between them—joyous and ethereal, harmonies sung on Minbar even before Valen's time. She knew the blessing song came from the gathered Rangers, heard Chenann and Lennier add their voices to the choir, and yet the music seemed to rise from everywhere. She reached John and they clasped hands. His fingers were warm, his grip strong. Together, they walked onto the observation deck, where Mayan and Brother Theo awaited them.

The ceremony itself passed in a series of moments, like bright jewels on a string. Mayan's voice, sweet and high, chanting the first words of the Rite of Joining. Brother Theo reciting the Catholic marriage liturgy, his hand raised over them in blessing. Herself and John, trading lines of the St. Francis prayer he had shown her: "_Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is sadness, joy; where there is despair, hope; and where there is darkness, light…_". Theo and Mayan, reciting alternate stanzas of Korenn's famous poem on love and union. David Sheridan, passing two plain gold bands to Garibaldi, who fumbled slightly from nervousness as he gave them in turn to Brother Theo. John slipping one ring onto her finger… _with this ring, I thee wed_… Herself doing the same for him, saying the same words. Two circles of gold, side by side, bright with promise.

Mayan again, asking her the ritual question—_What do you bring to the life you now begin?_

A single note from a handbell gave her the opening pitch. She sang the response Mayan had written with her whole heart; her voice rang through the chamber, golden-bright and clear. "Faith and dreams, forever ours/Joy for days of light/Love and laughter, hand in hand/Hope for the darkest night/All these I bring, beloved, for the journey of our days/The neverending journey of our days."

Then John's voice, each rich silky note spiraling outward toward the stars. "Courage and an open heart/Are yours, forever true/The strength of soul you see in me/The trust I place in you/All these I bring, beloved, for the journey of our days/The neverending journey of our days."

Mayan joined their hands. John's palms felt smooth against hers; their rings gleamed in the light of the ritual candle Mayan had lit. Three more hands joined their clasped ones in Delenn's field of vision: Lennier and Susan and Lyta, he in blue and the women in green, each twining a silk ribbon around her own and John's crossed wrists. Green for love, gold for life, blue for faith. Mayan passed the candle around their hands in a circle: once, twice, three times. "As you have said, so will it be," she chanted. "You are forever joined."

Lennier, his face solemn, took up a small ritual dagger and sliced neatly through the center of the braided ribbons. Susan and Lyta knotted off each piece and handed them to Mayan, who passed the candle over them. Delenn lifted her gaze to John's as Brother Theo spoke the final words of the blended rite: "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

A slow smile spread over John's face. Their lips met, a light brushing that deepened as emotion overtook them. The taste of him made her breathless, dizzy; she never wanted the kiss to end. She cupped his face in her hands as they came up for air, and dimly realized that the soft pattering sound she heard was everyone in the room applauding.

"I love you," John murmured in her ear. She saw tears in his shining eyes; one spilled over, and she gently brushed it away. Her heart was too full to speak, but she knew he had read her love in her face. They turned, arms around each other, and slowly left the observation deck.

The Rangers in the corridor had one last surprise for them—an arch of denn'boks, like a temple roof over their heads, a gesture richly symbolic of honor and blessing. Delenn held tight to her husband's arm as they passed down the hallway, as if the solid feel of him could anchor her. She leaned toward him and whispered, "I am so happy, I think my heart will burst with it."

"You're not allowed to have a heart attack before the reception," he answered. "Or the wedding night. Especially the wedding night."

She couldn't answer in words, but pressed closer to him as they walked on amid a barrage of rice.

**ooOoo**

Someone had borrowed a piano, and a trio of human Rangers—Marcus and two others—were doing a bang-up job as the musical entertainment. Marcus held a violin, currently across his lap as he watched the pianist and a tall redheaded woman with a saxophone play _As Time Goes By_.

"Here's looking at you, kid," Sheridan said to Delenn as they moved around the dance floor.

She laughed. "I do not look remotely like Ilsa Lund. And you are a great deal handsomer than Monsieur Rick."

"True. Humphrey Bogart never was much of a looker. I knew you'd like _Casablanca_, though. That's why I chose it for our first vid date."

"I remember." She pressed closer to him as the song continued.

He was humming by the second verse, and sang along with the third: "'It's still the same old story/The fight for love and glory/A case of do or die…'"

She joined in for the final two lines. "'The world will always welcome lovers/As time… goes…by.'"

"You sounded beautiful," he said softly. "Just now… and during the wedding."

"You did also." She moved her hand from his shoulder to caress his cheek. "I was inspired to do my best."

He turned his face to kiss her palm. She gave a happy sigh, and they danced on.

**ooOoo**

"Nice party," Lyta said as she nibbled on a triangle of cheese and olive-stuffed phyllo dough from the long buffet table at one end of the cafeteria. The Rangers had commandeered the place for the reception, with the enthusiastic aid of the station's kitchen staff. "I see they've segregated the champagne from the sparkling fruit juice."

Susan nodded. "With this many Minbari around, all Ranger-trained in combat, the last thing you want is anyone getting their drinks confused." She sipped her own glass of bubbly and looked over the edibles. "Somebody did the deli tray right. Real bread, full-size. I've never understood the micro-sandwich. What's the point?" She put down her champagne and assembled a roast beef on dark rye. "Mustard, mustard… ah. Good. The kind that tastes like something."

Garibaldi drifted over as she finished making the sandwich. She turned to him. "Roast beef, tomato and onion with spicy mustard. Want half?"

"Does this mean I'm forgiven?" His tone suggested he was only half-joking.

"Yeah." She sliced the sandwich down the middle. "Delenn told us why you've been such a bastard lately." She held out the plate. "After that ISN interview, I should have known something was wrong. Peace offering?"

After a moment, he took a sandwich half. "You know, you're not the first one to say that to me."

"And won't be the last, either." She raised her champagne flute. "To friends. May we do a better job of not screwing up for each other."

"Amen," he said, and tapped his sandwich against the side of her glass.

**ooOoo**

Delenn tilted her head as the music changed. "I haven't heard this in a long time. _An Chastighe Suoras_… The Mountains of Home. It sounds surprisingly good on that strange brass instrument Ranger Halvorson is playing—"

"Alto saxophone." Sheridan smiled down at her. "Another example of how well human and Minbari things can blend."

"I look forward to seeing exactly how well," she said, low and seductive.

His answer was husky. "So do I. Any time you like."

**ooOoo**

Garibaldi bit into the sandwich. "Hey, this is good."

"Of course it is," Susan said. "I'm Jewish. I know food." The Ranger band had struck up a new tune; Susan washed down a chunk of sandwich as she listened. "I don't know this one. Minbari, you think?"

"They're pretty good," Garibaldi said. "I didn't know Marcus could play."

"Me either." He was playing with his eyes shut, she realized, as blissful as if the music had carried him to his own private piece of heaven.

Lyta plucked a gorgeously frosted cupcake from the top of a stacked platter. "Think he takes requests?"

"I don't know." Something about watching Marcus play made her feel peaceful, more so than she remembered feeling for a long time. Certainly more than she remembered feeling around Marcus Cole, ever.

Lyta nudged her. "Ask him."

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

She drew breath to answer, and realized she didn't have one. Silent, she sipped her drink and watched Marcus's fingers dance across the violin strings.

"I need some champagne," Lyta said.

Garibaldi cleared his throat. "I could use a little cider."

They moved off. Susan kept her eyes on Marcus and his violin.

"Why not," she murmured, and drained her glass.

**ooOoo**

"I know this song," Chenann said to David Sheridan. They stood off to one side, each with a small plateful of fruit and cake, and watched their children dance. "It tells of the mountains around Tuzanor. The city sits in the middle of them, like a jewel in the palm of a giant's hand. The Mir clan has lived in those mountains since time beyond memory."

"They're Delenn's family?"

Chenann nodded. "Through her father. Normally, a child is raised in her mother's clan until she is old enough for fostering, or of age to choose which clan she will give primary kinship to. Our situation is… irregular."

"You're here now, though." David's smile was as gentle and warm as his son's. "In the end, that matters more than anything."

**ooOoo**

"One thing I don't understand," Sheridan said as the music ended. Amid light applause for the musicians, he and Delenn walked off the dance floor toward the flower-strewn buffet table, her arm tucked through his. He liked the feel of it there, liked even more the warmth of her close beside him. "I'm not a telepath. You're not a telepath—or at least, not much of one. Yet you felt that… that squid thing, and I saw your hands when I pulled it off me. I thought I was hallucinating—but the more I remember it, the more I think I wasn't. You were there. And Chenann—I saw her. Not just the fire she conjured up, everybody in the room saw that, but the whole golden-light thing. I _heard _her tell that creature to back off." He loaded a plate with strawberries, grapes and nek'har. "And before that, in the Zen garden—I actually felt what she was feeling a couple of times. Shouldn't that be impossible?"

She took a strawberry and turned it in her fingers. "Normally, yes. But…" She nibbled at the fruit and swallowed before speaking again. "I have been thinking about this, too. I saw what happened to you in Hanrahan's, John. As if the memory were imprinted in my mind. And there was a sense of your presence, leading me there…" She paused, strawberry half-eaten, eyes fixed on a distant point. "You should not have been able to do that—leave an impression for my mind to pick up. And I should not have been able to pick it up, anyway." Her gaze met his. "But we are bound, you and I. Soul mates. I think we have been together many lifetimes before, and we simply do not remember. Not consciously. But deep within… the bond never fades. Only strengthens."

"And Chenann?"

She set the green strawberry-top back on the plate. "When I was very young, I often felt her in my mind. Her presence, her emotions. Words I knew, sometimes, or pictures, or even snatches of music that told me what she was thinking. I did not know then that this was anything unusual. Not until she had to go—and then they tried to tell me, she and my father, but I didn't understand very much. Afterward, I sometimes tried to reach out to her—usually before sleep, or in meditation—but I never managed it." Her wistful look made his heart ache. "After awhile, I stopped trying. I realized she must have barriered herself against such contact—it would be too painful for us both. But… I think that bond, too, has never faded. Only gone dormant. Until the day you were taken, when it came to life again." She picked up a nek'har and held it as if weighing it along with her next words. "I don't know… but perhaps I created the link between you somehow."

He plucked a grape off its stem. "That ought to be a weird idea for me. But it's not. In fact, it makes an oddball kind of sense." He glanced across the room, and saw Chenann sitting with David in a pair of cushioned chairs. He was clearly telling her some sort of story; her attention was riveted on him, and she was smiling. Sheridan grinned. "Well, look at that. They seem to be getting on like a house on fire."

Delenn looked alarmed. "A house on fire is a good thing?"

He laughed and popped the grape in his mouth. "Figure—"

"—Of speech," she finished. Her eyes crinkled as she smiled up at him. She was so beautiful, in her shimmering gold wedding gown, that the sight of her stole his breath. "I know—I have the damnedest gaps in my vocabulary."

"You know me too well."

She stretched up to whisper in his ear. "How well?"

His heart thudded against his sternum. "How about we go find out?"

"I would like that." She stroked him behind the ear, in a spot that made him shiver. "After one last dance."

**ooOoo**

"So—do you take requests?" Susan said.

Marcus looked surprised, then grinned. "Never have before—but for you, I'd be delighted. What did you have in mind?"

_Oh, great. Now I have to come up with something._ She still couldn't quite believe she was doing this… but she was Susan Ivanova, and she always finished what she started. She blurted out the first title that came to mind, an old wedding song. "_Chusn Kalleh Mazl Tov_?"

His face fell. "Sorry. Don't know that one. Know loads of folk tunes from the British Isles, though. Some Minbari ones I picked up. Twentieth-century music from North America—thirties and forties, mostly. A few show tunes…"

She thought it over. "Something slow and sweet. Surprise me."

"All right." He looked pensive, then brightened. "I've got it. Feel free to sing along."

The intro was half-familiar; when she placed it, she felt herself smiling. As the pianist and the sax player came in on the second line, Susan gave in to the mad impulse that swept over her and joined in herself, in a warm, smoky alto:"'…Can you tell me where my love can be/Is there a meadow in the mist/Where someone's waiting to be kissed…'"

**ooOoo**

"_Skylark_," Sheridan said, face lighting up as he recognized the tune. He caught Delenn's eye. "The first song I taught you to dance to."

"I enjoyed that night," she said softly.

Mayan spoke from nearby, a fresh glass of cider in one hand. "I know this, I think." She glanced at Delenn. "You and Susan were singing it the other night, on our way back from The Eclipse."

Sheridan looked surprised, then amused. "You were singing in the corridors? At night?"

She felt herself coloring. "We had a… bachelorette party."

"There was that other song from Earth you sang, too," Mayan went on. "A very pretty one. Something about going over the rainbow…"

His grin widened. "You were singing _show tunes_ in the corridors at night?"

"I was drunk." She waited a beat, just to watch the shock cross his face. "On chocolate. Very dark chocolate. From someplace called Belgium."

"Three and a half bars," Mayan added. "It was most delicious."

"Good lord. I had no idea chocolate did that to Minbari."

"Neither did I. Mayan figured it out." Her hand closed over his where it held the half-eaten plate of fruit. "I do not think I will do that again. But it had been a very difficult day."

"No kidding." He set the plate down and took her hands. "One more verse. May I have this… last dance?"

"You may." Her answering smile made him think of starlight. And other things. Together, they moved out onto the dance floor.

**ooOoo**

…_Sad as a gypsy serenading the moon_. Lennier didn't know what a gypsy was, but _sad_ certainly described him just now. He felt as if some precious thing had gone from him, without his having known what it was until the moment just after the moment of loss.

What was the matter with him? He stared into his sparkling cider, as if its golden depths could answer his question. He should be happy. Sheridan was his friend, and Delenn…

_Delenn._ His heart contracted so hard, for a moment he feared he was having some kind of seizure. He forced himself to breathe, and the tight feeling in his chest receded. She had honored him beyond measure, giving him such an important role in the joining ritual. He should be glad of it, and glad for her. Glad for both of them, who loved each other so dearly and had suffered so much before they could finally come together. And yet all he felt was a terrible sorrow, and a confusing sense of having been cheated of something.

He gulped cider, and briefly wished it were the champagne he saw several humans drinking. It would feel good to have _that_ go to his head; to get angry, really angry, to punch a hole in something or take it apart with his bare hands—

He set down the glass with controlled force, shocked and repelled by his own thoughts. He couldn't stay here, watching Delenn dance in Sheridan's arms. Watching their happiness, when _he_ wanted to hold her like that, _he_ wanted to be the one who brought that starry-eyed joy to her face…

He glanced around the room. No one was looking his way. He turned and fled out the nearest exit toward the sanctuary of his quarters. He would meditate there, in private, until he regained some control.

**ooOoo**

So sudden and sharp was the flare of anguish, Chenann nearly dropped her glass. A hand on hers, helping to keep the cider in her grip, steadied her. David Sheridan was looking at her, concern on his face. "Nearly had a spill there. Are you all right?"

Where had that pain come from? On instinct, her eyes sought Delenn. But all was well. Her daughter was dancing with Sheridan, the two of them so close to each other that they seemed like one body. She shut her mind to that very private pathway of thought and managed a smile for David. "I am well, thank you. A momentary turn. Perhaps I am not as fully recovered as I believed."

"John tells me you saved his life," he said. "I owe you a debt. A huge one."

She shook her head. "We saved each other, your son and I. I would not be here now, but for him. So if there is any debt, I would say it has been well paid."

**ooOoo**

Susan's voice rang through the room, drawing out _Skylark_'s final three notes in a rich crescendo. The saxophone and Marcus' violin lasted a heartbeat longer. As the last note died away, the room broke into applause… and Sheridan took the chance to quietly draw Delenn off the dance floor. They slipped out a side exit, laughing like children as they half-ran through the corridors to Sheridan's quarters. When they reached the door, he stopped. "Come a little closer."

Her eyes widened. "You have to ask me?"

"I need you closer to manage this," he said with a chuckle.

"Manage what?"

"This." He punched in the lock code, then swept her up in his arms as the door swung open.

She sputtered in surprise. "John, what—?"

"Ancient human custom." She was solid and warm in his arms, as if she had always belonged there. His steps felt lighter than air as he carried her over the threshold.

She was laughing now, a sound more beautiful to him than an angel choir. "Put me down. This is most undignified."

He did as she asked… slowly, drawing the length of her body against his own. He heard her breath catch, saw the sudden rush of desire in her eyes. "Is that what you want?" he murmured, raising a hand to stroke her cheekbone. "To be dignified?"

"Not… at the moment." Her breath came faster as he ran his fingers through her hair, then around the delicate curve of her ear. He felt her own hands moving up his back, the heat of her palms against the nape of his neck. Their lips met, and he felt as if he could lose himself forever in that one sweet, passionate kiss.

His own breathing was ragged when they broke apart. "I love you," he said.

Delicate fingers traced his lips. Her eyes were the deep green he remembered from the Shan'Fal. "Show me how much."

**ooOoo**

"I'd no idea you sang," Marcus said, cradling his violin in the crook of one arm.

Susan smiled. "I'm full of surprises."

He gave her a flirtatious look. "I like that in a woman."

Weddings must make her sappy, she thought. Instead of frosting him with a glare, she actually kept smiling. "Smooth, Marcus. Very smooth."

"I've been practicing in front of my mirror."

She laughed at that. "You don't quit, do you?"

"Not often, no. I find persistence a virtue."

The wedding reception was winding down. Susan looked around and saw Garibaldi sauntering toward the door; he caught her eye and waved, then went on his way with a little spring in his step. Lyta and Zack had left together awhile ago, her smiling, him with his head bent to catch what she was saying. _Something starting there_, Susan thought. She hoped it would work out; Lyta deserved a lucky break after everything she'd been through. Mayan and Delenn's mother, along with half a dozen Rangers, were helping the kitchen staff clear up. She watched Chenann vanish into a back room with a stack of plates, then reappear empty-handed. Mayan met her halfway across the cafeteria, and they both walked to where David Sheridan waited by the main door. He extended an arm to each of them, and all three walked off. Lennier was nowhere in sight… and as for the happy couple… _nope, not going to go there_.

She glanced at Marcus, who'd turned away to put his violin in its case. He snapped the hasps shut, straightened up and looked at her. "Care to come out for a coffee?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Marcus, we've been gorging ourselves silly for the past three hours at least. If I had gills, I'd be stuffed to them. And you want to go out for something to eat?"

He shrugged. "I'd just like to go out. With you. Coffee and a pastry gives us something to do with our hands. You know, in case there are any awkward moments. Say yes."

She would likely regret this later, but just now she felt too happy to care. "What the hell. Why not?"

**ooOoo**

The first thing Delenn felt upon waking was his warmth at her back, the silken smoothness where their bare skins touched. He was spooned against her, chin resting on her shoulder, one arm draped across her waist. A slow, deep breath brought her the scent of him… _of us_, she thought…musky and spicy-sweet. She smiled with her eyes shut, knowing what she would see when she opened them: John's bedroom, his sheets and blanket half-piled on top of their twined bodies.

She opened her eyes and looked down at where his hand rested on her stomach. Remembering all the places that hand had touched her last night made her blush and sparked heat deep inside. She shifted around to face him, just as he opened his eyes.

His sleepy smile made her giddy. "Good morning, Mrs. Sheridan," he murmured.

She traced his lips with one hand. "I like the sound of that."

"Me, too." His mouth moving against her fingertips intensified her desire. She kissed him, pressing his lips apart under hers in the way she knew he liked.

"Somehow…" he said, when he could speak again, "I get the feeling you're not interested in breakfast."

She gave a throaty laugh. "Not yet."

**ooOoo**

By some miracle, Sheridan had found them a small, clear space amid the chaos of the passenger lounge. Chenann stood next to Delenn, Mayan waiting on the other side, and wished she could stay another day. Or several. But home called, and duty… and she _was_ beginning to miss the quiet order of the chapter house. A little. "I will convey your respects to the Eldest of our order," she said to Delenn. Then, with a touch of dry humor: "And I thought I would speak with Elder Callenn as well. He is no doubt eager to hear everything about your wedding, down to the smallest detail. It would be graceless to disappoint him, would it not?"

Delenn kept her expression grave, though the gleam in her eyes gave her away. "Oh, of course. We must avoid disappointing Elder Callenn at all costs. Spare nothing; tell him everything you can think of."

Just for a moment, Chenann let her own merriment show in her face. Then she sobered and placed a hand over Delenn's heart. "I will miss you terribly, _mai'le_. Again."

Delenn's eyes were over-bright as she mirrored her mother's gesture. "We will always have the memory of this time together. I could not ask for any greater gift."

She touched her forehead to her daughter's. Her throat felt tight, and it was hard to speak. "_You_ were my gift," she said. "And now I have you back." She took a step away then and bowed deeply, using the formal gesture to bring herself under control.

Delenn returned the bow, and Chenann saw that control was no easier for her. "Be well, _Oma'mai_," she said, her voice rough with emotion.

"And you," Chenann replied.

The final boarding call echoed through the lounge. Mayan turned to Delenn, and they took each other's hands. "Send me a message when you arrive," Delenn said. "Send me dozens. A hundred. Tell me how you are doing, and what you are doing. And…" Her gaze shifted past Mayan's shoulder, to where Chenann stood. A slender figure in silver-gray, dark eyes shining as they met Delenn's one last time.

"I will tell you everything," Mayan said. She pressed her forehead to Delenn's in a quick, warm caress. "And now we must go. But only for now." She turned away and joined Chenann, and the two women walked off toward the docking bay.

At the bay entrance, Chenann looked back. Delenn was standing next to Sheridan, his arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him as if for comfort.

One last time, Chenann raised her hand and held it out toward her daughter's heart.


End file.
